ity  of  Califo 
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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES 
MARCHING  HOME 


Interior  of  the  church  at  Couilly  looking  out  from  the 
choir  across  the  nave  to  the  right  aisle 

See  page  /j<5 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES 
MARCHING  HOME 


BY 

MILDRED  ALDRICH 
» >  • 

AUTHOR   OF  "A   HILLTOP   ON   THE   MARNE,"  "TOLD   IN  A   FRENCH 

GARDEN,  AUGUST,  1914,"  "  ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  WAR 

IONE,"  "THE  TEAK  OF  THE  LOAD" 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD   AND   COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,   1919 
BY   MILDRED  ALDRICR 


TKF.     LNIVTCRSITY    PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,    U.   S.  A. 


To  THE  MEMORY  OF 
(Tiir  Soys  front  lljr 

whose   young   bodies   lie   in   bravely  earned   peace  along 
the  quiet  roadsides  of  beloved  France 

AND    TO 

5Ihr  UToutrn 

who,  in  silent  pain,  sent  them  "overseas"  to  meet  their 
great  adventure 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

Interior  of  the  church  at  Couilly  looking  out 
from  the  choir  across  the  nave  to  the 
right  aisle Frontispiece 

Bridge  at  Chateau-Thierry  defended  by 
American  machine  gunners.  It  was  after- 
ward destroyed 64 

The  bridge  over  the  Grande  Morin  between 
Couilly  and  St.  Germain  over  which 
thousands  of  American  boys  marched  on 
their  way  to  Chateau-Thierry  in  June, 
1918.  At  the  further  end  at  the  left  is 
the  Route  National  which  leads  to  Meaux  136 

Tototte  holding  down  her  "scrap  of  paper" 

and  looking  for  another 210 

Khaki  in  the  arbor  looking  down  at  Tototte     218 
Khaki  in  the  garden  waiting  for  his  breakfast      218 


TO  THE   GENTLE   READER 

AT  the  time  the  letters  which  made  up 
"The  Peak  of  the  Load"  were  edited,  no 
one  "  over  here  "  had  any  hope  that  the  order 
"  cease  firing  "  would  be  given  on  the  western 
front  before  the  spring  of  1919.  Otherwise 
that  book  would  have  been  held  back  until 
after  the  armistice. 

It  had  been  my  intention  when  the 
fighting  on  this  front  ended  so  prematurely, 
to  publish  none  of  the  letters  written  to  the 
States  after  the  cessation  of  hostilities,  for 
the  reason  that  there  was  no  longer  any  war 
activity  here,  and  the  war  activity  had 
been  their  sole  excuse.  Here,  the  country- 
side settled  down  at  once  to  an  outward 
calm  rarely  disturbed  by  anything  in  the 
least  warlike,  —  that  is,  anything  which 
it  seemed  to  me  could  make  the  smallest 
appeal  to  even  "the  friends  old  and  new," 
who  had  received  three  books  with  such 
touching  and  outspoken  sympathy,  and  whose 
whole  thought,  I  was  convinced,  was  al- 
ready turned  to  larger  events  unrolling  in 
other  places,  beside  which  our  simple  life 
could  make  no  call. 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

More  than  that — it  was  inevitable  that  in 
the  letters  which  I  wrote  to  my  intimate 
friends  after  the  armistice  I  should  write  of 
many  things  interesting  only  to  them  and  to 
me,  which  were  more  or  less  personal  com- 
ments and  opinions  on  and  of  conditions  and 
events  already  familiar  to  every  one  in  the 
wide,  wide  world,  and  therefore  containing 
no  single  note  of  novelty,  and  that  I  should 
also  pick  up  threads  that  had  been  neglected 
in  the  exciting  days  of  actual  warfare,  and 
that  the  spiritual  movement  in  the  air,  as  a 
result  of  the  stunning  shock  to  which  the 
whole  world  had  stood  up,  should  have  im- 
pelled me  now  and  again  to  write  in  an  in- 
timate way  of  the  thought  and  soul  waves 
which  are  sweeping  over  the  earth,  and 
whose  tides  washed  up  here  on  the  Hilltop. 

Unfortunately  for  my  intention  I  have 
been,  receiving  during  the  weeks  which  have 
elapsed  since  "  The  Peak  of  the  Load  "  ap- 
peared, letters  from  all  over  the  States,  and 
from  England,  from  Canada,  from  Austra- 
lia, begging  for  all  sorts  of  details  about  our 
life  "after  the  armistice"  —  how  we  were 
living,  how  the  people  took  the  end  of  the 
war,  what  they  thought  of  it  all.  So  I  have 
reluctantly  —  I  am  sure  without  the  least 
vanity  —  finally  yielded  to  the  wishes  of 
those  who  received  the  earlier  letters  with 
so  much  indulgent  kindness,  and  edited  these 
final  words  from  the  Hilltop. 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

With  keen  appreciation  of  the  fact  that 
the  letters  contain  nothing  in  the  way  of  facts 
or  ideas  that  have  the  least  novelty  and  very 
much  that  is  already  ancient  history,  I  can 
only  say  to  those  who  have  called  for  "more" 
—  you  have  asked  —  and  you  receive. 

MILDRED  ALDRICH. 

Huiry,  April,   IQIQ. 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES 
MARCHING  HOME 


L*  Creste,  Huiry,  August  16,   !Qi8 

DEAREST  OF  OLD  GIRLS  : 

On  returning  from  my  last  Sunday  trip  to 
Versailles  I  found  your  letter  of  July  2Oth, 
lying  on  my  desk  to  welcome  me.  I  was 
touched,  and  comforted,  too,  to  know  that 
you  had  felt  so  excited  about  me,  but  I  was 
sorry  that  you  had  worried.  I  actually  for- 
got this  time  that  you  would  have  any  reason 
for  alarm.  To  begin  with,  I  am  accustomed 
to  the  situation,  and  the  conviction  is  woven 
into  my  very  soul  that  nothing  can  happen  to 
me  now. 

All  the  same  I  do  not  want  you,  for  a 
single  second,  to  take  it  for  granted  —  as  you 
seem  to  be  doing  —  that  I  do  not  give  full 
credit  to  the  way  in  which  the  Fates  appear 
to  have  taken  care  of  me.  Believe  me,  I 
am  never  unmindful  of  it.  Only,  you  see, 
there  are  thousands  of  people  over  here  who 
have  had  much  narrower  escapes  than  I  have 
—  only  you  don't  happen  to  have  known 
them,  and  therefore  they  are  not  writing  you 
letters.  Besides,  I  am  now  and  then  mod- 
estly conscious  that  it  is  quite  possible  that 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

the  individual  here  whom  the  gods  have 
thought  it  worth  while  to  save  may  not  be 
yours  truly  at  all.  It  is  the  old  story.  I 
never  do  seem  to  get  a  leading  part, — can't 
get  in  the  limelight  for  even  a  short  scene. 

You  are  quite  just  in  saying  that  I  have  no 
right  to  have  expected  a  "  second  miracle." 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  after  the  Germans 
crossed  the  Marne,  and  bombed  Meaux  and 
Mareuil,  I  did  not  expect  it.  Still,  the  Fates, 
aided  by  some  poilus,  and  a  few  Marines, 
brought  it  off;  and  let  me  tell  you  a  pretty 
thing  —  I  had  a  letter  which  was  lying  on  my 
desk  with  yours,  from  an  American  lad  who 
had  been  here,  though  I  did  not  see  him,  tell- 
ing me  that  on  the  opening  of  the  battle  of 
Chateau-Thierry  he  and  his  comrades  spoke 
of  me,  and  bore  in  mind  that  they  were  stand- 
ing between  me  and  the  Germans.  The  letter 
was  guardedly  written  —  mentioned  no  place 
—  and  passed  the  censor.  'I  understood. 
But  wasn't  that  touching? 

From  now  on  you  can  think  of  me  every 
day  as  quite  free  from  any  possible  return 
of  the  menace  that  threatened  us  for  four 
months.  As  sure  as  the  sun  rises  and  sets, 
the  Bodies  are  going  to  take  their  medicine, 
and  we  do  hope  that  it  is  going  to  be  admin- 
istered to  them,  without  regard  to  cost,  un- 
til they  lie  down  to  it  simply  because  they 
can't  take  it  standing. 

The  huge  bundle  of  newspapers  came  too. 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Thank  you.  Of  course  they  filled  me  with 
wonder  and  admiration  —  "knocked  me 
silly,"  as  the  boys  say.  I  simply  floundered 
about  in  the  long  detailed  accounts  of  the  ex- 
ploits of  the  Marines  and  the  story  of  the 
great  Foch  Offensive.  We  are  so  accus- 
tomed to  newspapers  of  two  pages  only  that 
a  Sunday  paper  of  'steen  pages,  all  full  of 
descriptive  accounts  of  the  fighting,  seems 
nothing  short  of  amazing.  And  oh!  the 
headlines  —  those  "scare-heads"  in  huge 
type !  They  filled  me  with  awe.  You  should 
have  seen  Amelie  hanging  over  them!  I 
read  every  word.  It  took  me  days.  Then 
I  translated  the  lines  under  all  the  pictures 
—  wrote  the  French  under  them  —  and  Ame- 
lie took  them  home  to  Pere,  who  was  as  de- 
lighted as  a  child.  I  don't  think  they  are 
done  admiring  them  yet.  They  cut  some  of 
the  pictures  out,  and  pinned  them  up  on  the 
wall. 

It  did  seem  odd  to  me  to  know  that  in 
those  great  days  in  July,  when  we  were  so 
silent  here,  you  in  the  States  had  been  ringing 
your  bells,  firing  your  cannon,  and  making 
the  "  welkin  ring  "  generally  with  your  shouts 
of  victory,  even  on  the  very  day  after  the 
Marines  and  the  Territorials  pushed  the 
Boches  back  across  the  Marne  at  Dormans. 
I  suppose,  however,  that  it  was  perfectly 
logical.  You  are  so  far  away  from  it  all. 
You  have  not  had  the  four  years  of  the  ter- 

[  3   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

rible  forward  and  back.  You  simply  see 
that  our  boys  from  home  have  jumped  into 
the  great  fight  and  that  victory  perched  on 
their  "tin  hats"  at  once.  You  know  over 
there  in  the  States  that  you  came  when  your 
coming  made  victory  sure  —  no  one  over 
here  ever  concealed  that  from  you.  So  it  is 
perfectly  natural  that  you  should  glory  in  a 
knockout  blow  from  the  Yanks  in  the  first 
round.  For  us  Americans  who  have  lived 
over  here,  so  close  to  the  Allied  Armies 
standing  up  for  four  years  against  mighty 
odds,  declining  to  know  it  when  they  were 
licked,  and  denying  defeat  when  they  were 
close  to  annihilation,  waiting  and  hoping  for 
the  millions  from  home  which  could  alone 
stem  the  tide,  the  case  is  different.  We  can't 
shout  yet  any  more  than  the  French  can  —  or 
the  British.  Not  yet  has  France  celebrated 
any  victory:  not  once  since  the  war  began 
has  she  hung  out  her  flags  except  to  honour 
the  entering  into  line  of  a  new  Ally :  no  bells 
have  been  rung  here  except  to  warn  people 
of  an  air  raid  or  its  finish :  no  guns  have  been 
fired  except  for  military  purposes.  Yet  it 
is  four  weeks  since  the  Foch  offensive  began, 
and  from  the  beginning  it  has  been  successful. 
Of  course,  to  us  here,  who  were  watching 
the  German  offensives  so  short  a  time  ago, 
and  saw  the  Boche  advance  in  such  long  and 
rapid  strides,  it  does  look  slow,  but  slow  as 
it  is  we  are  convinced  that  it  is  sure.  When 

[  4   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

it  began,  the  nearest  point  in  the  German 
lines  to  Paris  was  —  as  near  as  I  could  make 
out  —  Ferte-Milon,  a  i3th  century  walled 
town  where  Racine  was  born,  which  is  only 
forty  miles  from  the  capital.  Last  night  the 
nearest  point  was  Fismes,  sixty-six  miles 
from  Paris,  where  the  Americans  are  fighting 
and  giving  a  good  account  of  themselves. 

I  know  that  there  is  nothing  that  I  can 
possibly  write  to  you  for  which  you  have  such 
a  keen  craving  as  the  doings  of  our  own  boys. 
You  are  not  the  only  one  who  seems  to  think 
that  I  can  keep  track  of  them.  Bless  you,  I 
can't.  I  don't  see  them  except  by  accident. 

I  get  letters  by  the  score  from  old  friends 
in  the  States  who  say,  "  When  you  see  my 
darling  boy,  do  give  him  a  great  big  hug  and 
a  kiss  for  his  mother."  There  is  only  one 
reply.  "  *  Barkis  is  willin.' '  Only  your  boy 
must  come  after  the  hug  and  the  kiss.  I  can't 
very  well  go  up  and  down  the  road,  like  a 
sandwich  man,  advertising  that  "if  any  boy 
wants  to  be  kissed  for  his  mother  or  his 
best  girl  by  proxy,  now's  his  opportunity," 
can  I? 

But,  although  I  don't  see  the  special  boys 
from  whom  my  own  friends  want  news,  and 
although  I  only  see  the  others  by  accident, 
when  special  service  brings  them  into  this 
neighbourhood,  I  do  hear  about  them  often, 
since  any  French  officer  who  comes  here  inva- 
riably comes  to  talk  about  them  with  me. 

[  5  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

One  of  them  told  me  yesterday,  speaking  of 
the  great  Chateau-Thierry  drive,  where  thirty 
per  cent  of  the  fighting  army  were  Americans, 
that  our  boys  fought  like  veterans,  and  with 
a  tenacity  that  rivalled  the  best  French  regi- 
ments de  choc,  in  a  battle  which  he  pro- 
nounced as  "  furieuse"  and  "  one  of  the  most 
deadly  "  of  his  entire  career.  One  can  hardly 
say  more  than  that.  So  you  may  just  hug  to 
your  heart  the  knowledge  that  they  have 
made  a  great  showing  and  provided  the 
world  with  the  proof  that  the  people  of  the 
great  democracy  can  be  just  as  obedient  to 
discipline  as  any  tyrant-ridden,  whip-driven 
race  that  ever  went  into  war.  I  reckon  that 
we  can  agree  in  saying  that  if  a  government 
can  be  as  patriotic  as  the  people  of  the  States 
have  proved  thejmselves,  even  becoming 
temporarily  autocratic  can't  smash  the 
democracy. 

Of  course  the  whole  character  of  the  war 
has  changed  as  we  see  it  here.  That  was 
inevitable  as  soon  as,  with  the  aid  of  the 
English  fleet,  the  States  succeeded  in  the 
wonderful  feat  of  bringing  its  millions 
through  the  submarine  zone,  and  thus  in- 
creasing the  power  of  the  Allied  armies  to  a 
point  which  made  them  absolutely  irresist- 
ible, by  mere  weight  of  numbers.  Plenty  of 
us  have  always  known  that  Germany  was 
going  to  be  defeated.  I  imagine  Germany 
knew  it  soon  as  she  realized  that  she  had 

[  6  1 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

miscalculated  again  —  the  Yanks  were  over. 
That  is  what  makes  the  battle  going  on  now 
so  absolutely  different  from  any  of  the  great 
battles  we  have  lived  through.  Up  to  now, 
we  have  watched  great  local  offensives  on 
both  sides.  Never  until  now  have  we  seen,  on 
either  side,  the  entire  battle-front  from  the 
North  Sea  to  the  Swiss  frontier  put  in  move- 
ment under  the  supreme  command  of  one 
chief.  Up  to  now  the  staggering  German 
blows  have  been  delivered  first  on  one  sec- 
tion of  the  line,  then  on  another.  Up  to 
now  these  mighty  German  drives  have  rarely 
lasted  more  than  ten  days  in  each  phase.  If 
at  the  end  of  ten  days  the  Boches  had  not 
actually  achieved  their  objective,  or  definitely 
put  the  Allied  forces  out  of  touch  with  one 
another,  we  could  say  —  no  matter  how 
tragic  had  been  our  loss  of  ground,  or  how 
crushing  our  losses  in  men — "All  is  not  lost." 
So  you  can  easily  imagine  what  it  is  like  here 
now,  when,  day  after  day,  the  battle  goes  on, 
day  after  day  the  Allies  advance  a  little,  and 
when  we  know  there  there  is  no  longer  any 
need  to  stop  to  reorganize,  or  to  delay  while 
men  are  being  hurried  from  one  end  of  the 
front  to  the  other;  no  need  to  "  let  up  "  while 
men  and  material  are  being  moved  to  some 
menaced  point  —  for  there  is  no  lack  to-day 
of  either  men  or  guns.  The  fighting  has  been 
heavier  at  one  point  to-day,  at  another  to- 
morrow. But  it  has  been  continuous.  And 

C   7   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

for  this  blessed  state  of  affairs  every  one 
says,  "  God  bless  America  I  " 

I  am  afraid  that  I  can't  quite  make  you 
realize  how  different  it  is  from  what  it  was 
in  June  even,  when  the  heavy  fighting  was 
going  on  behind  the  forest  of  Villiers-Cot- 
terets,  east  of  Compiegne.  I  already  look  to 
that  time  as  if  it  were  a  bad  dream.  When- 
ever I  think  of  it  I  can  see  myself  waiting  in 
silence  for  the  news.  I  still  remember  the 
uneasy  sleep  at  night,  the  early  morning 
rising  to  wait  for  the  news.  I  used  to  send 
a  boy  on  his  wheel  to  wait  at  Esbly  for  the 
Paris  papers.  It  only  gained  an  hour,  but 
that  hour  in  the  morning  was  well  worth 
gaining.  It  was  so  hard  to  listen  to  the  guns 
in  absolute  ignorance  of  what  they  were 
saying.  I  used  to  stand  on  my  lawn  with  a 
field  glass,  watching  the  road  from  Conde, 
and  the  moment  I  saw  the  wheel,  I  hurried 
out  to  meet  it.  The  boy,  young  as  he  was  — 
only*  twelve  —  had  already  got  the  news,  and 
he  understood.  He  always  waved  his  hand 
as  soon  as  we  were  within  shouting  distance, 
and  called  out  "All  right.  They've  not 
broken  through !  "  Then  we  all  went  back  to 
work  and  to  bear  it  for  another  day.  Now 
and  then — especially  if  the  news  were  bad  — 
we  used  to  hear  from  the  mairie,  when  the 
evening  communique  was  telegraphed.  We 
have  no  evening  papers.  I  imagine  it  is  be- 
cause you  have  never  lived  through  that  sort 
[  8  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

of  long  suspense  that  you  are  able  to  ring 
out  your  bells  of  victory  so  soon. 

Do  forgive  my  harping  on  these  things. 
Though  we  believe  they  will  never  come 
again,  they  are  still  very  living  memories  to 
us. 

If  it  happens  —  and  it  may  —  that  this 
victory  upsets  our  calculations,  it  will  be 
wonderful.  We  are  all  prepared  here  for 
a  fifth  war  winter.  A  month  ago  the  sol- 
diers expected  it, —  yet,  if  it  should  be  that 
the  slogan  "  Heaven,  Hell,  or  Hoboken  for 
Christmas "  is  nearer  a  prophecy  than  the 
joke  it  looked  on  July  4th,  no  one  will  deny 
that  it  will  be  due  to  the  speeding  up  of  the 
Americans,  and  the  only  danger  Americans 
have  to  guard  against  is  mistaking  speeding 
up  the  machine  for  making  it. 

When  we  examine  the  maps  of  the  Ger- 
man offensives  of  March  and  May  —  and 
they  are  all  printed  in  detail  here,  and  then 
compare  them  with  those  of  the  slow  going 
back  of  the  Allies  to-day  you  might  think  it 
would  make  simple  people  pessimistic,  espe- 
cially remembering  how  many  times  we  have 
advanced  only  to  retreat  again.  It  doesn't. 
Even  here  in  this  corner  of  the  Brie  country 
there  is  n't  a  man,  woman,  or  child  who  does 
not  know  that  the  Germans  are  now  facing 
a  force  which  is  irresistible,  and  which  leaves 
them  no  choice :  that  not  even  the  sacrificing 
of  their  armies  to  a  more  wholesale  slaughter 

[  9  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

than,  ever  can  save  them.  The  only  question 
now  is  "when,"  for  it  is  sure  that  Germany 
will  never  fight  on  when  the  threat  of  in- 
vasion cannot  be  held  off.  For  this  condition 
of  the  great  war  the  people  here  religiously 
believe  the  Americans  to  be  responsible. 
"  God  bless  the  Americans,"  is  the  phrase 
oftenest  on  their  lips.  Well,  God  help  us  to 
live  up  to  it. 

Last  Thursday  —  that  was  the  8th  — 
Amiens  was  safe,  with  the  Germans  eight 
miles  further  from  the  outskirts  of  the  city 
than  they  have  been  since  the  end  of  the 
March  offensive,  which  smashed  the  British 
5th  Army.  By  the  way,  I  have  a  story  to 
tell  you  later  regarding  that  disaster,  which 
removes  the  blame  from  the  English  officers 
and  puts  it  where  the  cause  of  so  many  dis- 
asters in  this  war  has  had  to  be  so  justly 
put — on  politics  and  the  war  office. 

Of  course  the  Allies  are  a  long  way  from 
the  line  they  held  last  March,  but  they  are 
moving  slowly  toward  it  across  a  devastated 
country,  —  such  a  scene  as  you,  safe  in  your 
homes  on  the  west  side  of  the  Atlantic,  can- 
not imagine,  try  as  you  may,  and  which 
kindly  nature  is  going  to  arrange  so  that  you 
never,  in  its  full  horror  of  naked  freshness, 
will  be  able  to  see. 

I  know  that  you  arc  going  to  twit  me  with 
still  harping  on  devastation.  I  may  as  well 
anticipate  the  reproach  and  acknowledge  that 

[    10  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

it  is  absolutely  deliberate  on  my  part, — "lest 
you  forget,"  —  in  the  glory  of  victory  — 
what  it  has  cost  others.  It  will  require  a 
mighty  effort  not  to.  That  is  why  I  insist  on 
keeping  devastation  constantly  before  you  in 
the  hope  that  you  will  keep  it  in  the  minds  of 
those  about  you.  I  would,  if  I  could,  inspire 
you  to  speak  of  it  everywhere  —  when  you 
go  out  to  tea,  when  you  make  a  call,  when 
you  dine  out,  between  the  acts  at  the  theatre, 
at  your  Red  Cross  Unit,  in  the  streetcar,  even 
after  church.  If  constant  dropping  wears 
away  a  stone,  perhaps  constant  repetition  of 
this  disaster  may  help  those  who  are  so  far 
away  from  the  sight  and  the  pain  of  the  sit- 
uation out  there  in  the  north  of  France,  to 
understand,  in  a  measure,  what  has  happened. 
Of  course  you  will  become  a  common  nui- 
sance. But  that  is  a  matter  of  pure  indiffer- 
ence to  me.  I  am  making  one  of  myself. 
Do  I  care  ?  Not  a  jot.  I  shall  return  to  the 
subject  often.  Reconcile  yourself  to  it.  If 
you  can't,  why,  I'll  have  to  find  another  cor- 
respondent, that 's  all,  —  some  one  who  will 
not  mind  helping  me  cry  from  the  housetops 
the  truth  of  what  has  happened  in  France 
until  the  very  air  vibrates  with  it  from  Hud- 
son's Bay  to  Cape  Horn,  and  from  the  At- 
lantic to  the  Pacific.  I  have  a  reason  for  this. 
No  need  to  be  explicit  just  now.  It  will 
sooner  or  latter  jump  in  your  face  without 
aid  from  me  —  the  reason,  I  mean. 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Let  me  see  —  I  wrote  you  last  on  Au- 
gust 4th,  I  think  it  was.  Well,  the  Big 
Bertha  got  to  work  again  the  next  day,  after 
fifteen  days  of  silence,  and  kept  at  it  for  five. 
On  the  last  day  —  August  9th,  —  she  only 
fired  two  shots. 

I  think  we  were  all  rather  surprised.  We 
had  hoped  she  had  been  pushed  back  so  that 
Paris  was  out  of  range.  I  had  a  letter  from 
Paris  on  the  loth,  which  said  that  the  bom- 
bardments of  the  5th  and  6th  were,  so  far  as 
the  number  of  shots  sent  over,  the  worst  since 
those  of  March  23d  and  March  3Oth,  and 
more  costly  in  lives  than  any  since  the  day 
the  bomb  fell  on  St.  Gervais,  March  29th  — 
Good  Friday  —  during  the  musical  service. 
Singularly  enough  only  one  shot  was  fired 
that  day,  but  it  was  disastrous  enough  to 
make  the  day  forever  memorable. 

The  greatest  possible  secrecy  is  still  wisely 
preserved  about  the  result  of  these  bom- 
bardments as  it  is  about  the  night  raids  of  the 
German  avions,  —  from  which,  by  the  way, 
Paris  has  been  free  since  June  27th.  No  one 
knows  why — at  least  no  one  who  tells. 
Some  say  the  Bodies  are  too  busy  elsewhere; 
some  that,  at  last,  they  lack  material;  some 
that  the  air  protection  is  now  so  perfected 
that  the  Boche  flyers  can't  get  through.  I 
imagine  any  reason  is  more  likely  to  be  true 
than  the  last. 

It  is  much  easier  to  preserve  a  kind  of 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

localized  secrecy  regarding  the  night  raids 
than  it  is  regarding  the  bombardments  by 
the  Big  Bertha,  which  occur  in  broad  day- 
light. During  the  bombardments  <of  this 
month,  for  example,  every  one  knows  just 
where  the  shells  fell,  because  they  were  well 
within  the  city,  and  in  places  to  which  men  on 
the  boulevards  could  hurry  before  the  fire 
department  had  time  to  clean  up.  When  one 
fell,  in  the  early  afternoon  of  a  beautiful  day, 
in  the  rue  des  Capucines,  just  a  step  off  the 
grand  boulevards,  it  was  hardly  possible  to 
conceal  the  fact,  any  more  than  it  was  on 
another  day  when  shells  fell  in  a  line  across 
the  city,  from  the  Invalides  on  one  side  of 
the  Seine,  to  the  Avenue  Marceau  on  the 
other.  You  will  be  especially  interested  in 
the  latter  achievement,  as  the  line  crossed  the 
Avenue  Marceau  not  far  from  the  place 
where  I  was  living  with  Virginia  in  1899, 
when  you  came  there  to  see  me.  One  bomb 
fell  in  the  rue  Bassano  just  opposite  the  old 
place. 

That  makes  me  think  —  did  I  ever  tell 
you  that  the  Big  Bertha  reached  the  Made- 
leine one  day?  I  am  sure  that  I  did  not.  I 
would  not  then  have  dared.  I  am  bolder 
now.  The  shot  came  in  from  the  rue  Tron- 
chet  and  decapitated  the  statue  of  some 
saint  —  I  forget  which  one,  —  and  made  a 
hole  in  the  pavement  in  front  of  it. 

Paris  would  not  be  Paris  if  it  did  not  get 

[  13  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

some  fun  out  of  the  incident.  Almost  as 
soon  as  the  head  rolled  down  the  steps  the 
story  ran  along  the  boulevards  that  the  Big 
Bertha  had  decapitated  a  woman  at  the 
Madeleine.  People  ran  to  see.  There  was  a 
crowd,  and  it  was  really  quite  a  while  before 
any  one  saw  the  joke, —  if  it  was  one. 

It  was  the  Qth  —  a  week  ago  to-day  —  that 
I  was  in  Paris,  on  my  way  to  Versailles,  with 
the  Big  Bertha  still  at  work.  I  lunched  that 
day  with  a  New  York  friend,  just  over  from 
London,  and  having  his  first  experience  of 
a  city  under  bombardment.  He  had  been 
about  to  look  at  the  damage  done  on  the  two 
previous  days,  and  expressed  a  mild  surprise 
when  I  said  that  no  one  considered  these 
bombardments  of  any  military  importance. 

"Why,"  he  ejaculated,  "how  can  you  say 
that?  There  were  hundreds  of  thousands 
worth  of  damage  done  yesterday  alone,  and 
I  don't  know  how  many  people  killed,  but 
'they  say'  nearly  a  hundred.  That  seems 
to  me  an  act  of  war  quite  worth  while." 

I  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  any  signs  of 
demoralization. 

"Well,  no,"  he  replied,  "but  I've  not 
seen  any  one  who  liked  it." 

I  had  to  own  that  I  supposed  that  no  one 
did  —  I  don't  myself.  But  the  important 
thing  is  that  they  put  up  with  it.  The  streets 
are  not  deserted  and  they  are  calm. 

He  had  to  admit  that  this  was  quite  true, 

[    14   ] 


and  even  to  confess  that  London  was  much 
sadder  than  Paris.  Well,  for  that  matter,  it 
always  is,  even  in  peace  times. 

The  Germans  celebrated  my  return  home 
by  an  air  raid  on  Thursday  night.  It  seemed 
to  be  directed  toward  Paris,  but  it  did  not  get 
there,  although  it  did  some  smashing  work 
in  the  suburbs.  They  seem  to  be  giving 
Paris  a  long  rest,  but  we  hear  of  them  every 
day  at  Calais  or  Dunkirk  or  Boulogne,  and 
even  at  Rouen.  We  are  having  the  kind  of 
nights  that  we  used  to  call  ideal  for  them  — 
moon  bright,  air  clear.  But  we  have  learned 
since  then  that  all  weather  is  the  same  for 
them  —  except  rain  or  snow.  They  came 
over  us  again  last  night,  and  for  an  hour  the 
barrage  was  diabolical.  I  always  tell  myself 
that  I  will  lie  quietly  in  bed.  But  it  is  impos- 
sible. I  simply  can't.  So  I  get  up,  put  on  a 
wrap,  and  sit  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  try 
to  read  by  the  light  of  a  small  electric  lamp. 
Last  night  it  was  evidently  not  Paris  for 
which  they  headed,  for  when  I  put  out  my 
little  lamp,  and  looked  out,  I  could  see  the 
searchlights  getting  themselves  tangled  up 
in  the  sky  trying  to  spot  the  Boche,  whom 
I  could  hear  east  of  us,  although  I  could  not 
see  him. 

On  the  nth,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
thousands  of  German  prisoners  marching 
over  the  hill  in  the  direction  of  Paris.  I 
happened  to  be  on  the  road  when  I  saw  the 

[   15   1 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

head  of  the  column  coming  round  the  curve 
at  the  top  of  the  hill.  As  the  line  stretched 
out  I  wondered  what  it  was,  and  then  I  saw 
people  running  toward  the  road  from  the 
fields.  When  I  saw  the  round  caps  and 
green  coats  I  realized  that  it  was  the  prison- 
ers being  brought  in  from  the  American  sector 
and  I  stopped  the  cart  to  watch  them  pass. 
We  have  seen  a  good  many  German  prisoners 
here,  but  never  before  anything  like  that. 
It  was  an  army  marching  four  abreast  — 
officers  as  well  as  men,  swinging  their  arms 
as  they  came  on  in  perfect  order.  Here  and 
there  on  either  side  of  the  road  marched  a 
poilu,  with  his  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  along 
the  road  the  peasants  stood  gazing  at  them 
with  silent,  indifferent  curiosity.  No  one  said 
a  word  or  made  a  sign.  Once  or  twice  a 
military  automobile  passed  carrying  an  of- 
ficer toward  the  front,  and  I  noted  that  he 
never  so  much  as  raised  his  eyes  or  turned 
his  head  to  look  at  them.  I  suppose  he  was 
more  used  to  seeing  them  than  I  was. 

I  wish  you  could  see  my  woodpile.  I  have 
been  gathering  it  from  anywhere  and  every- 
where since  last  spring.  I  propose  to  be 
warm  this  winter,  and  that  my  house  shall 
look  gayer  than  it  has  in  the  past  four  years. 
Great  fires  will  "up  my  chimney  roar," 
though  I  don't  expect  the  stranger  will  find 
much  in  the  way  of  a  feast  on  my  board.  I 
regret  to  tell  you  that  they  are  cutting  the 

[   16  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

trees  on  the  canal,  which  changes  the  out- 
look from  the  lawn.  Still,  as  it  opens  spaces, 
through  which  I  can  see  more  of  the  Marne 
than  I  used  to,  it  does  not  make  it  any  the 
less  pretty.  I  hated  to  see  the  trees  fall, 
but  still  as  it  was  being  done,  I  bought  my 
share,  and  the  refugies  are  getting  it  in  for 
me.  It  is  getting  to  be  a  very  handsome 
woodpile,  but  I  am  paying  for  it  by  the  pound 
• — it  really  is  that,  though  it  looks  better  as 
they  put  it  "by  the  hundred  kilos"  so  you 
do  not  need  to  be  told  that  something  else 
beside  great  fires  are  going  to  roar  up  my 
chimneys.  Anyway,  when  you  think  of  me 
this  winter,  you  can  think  of  me  as  warm,  and 
the  house  as  cheery  and  comfy. 


II 

August  30,  1918 

I  HAVE  had  a  rather  exciting  fortnight 
since  I  last  wrote  you.  To  begin  with,  the 
war  movements  have  kept  us  keyed  up  to  con- 
cert pitch  every  day.  But  I  imagine  that  is 
the  normal  condition  of  the  whole  world. 
I  am  sure  that  you  in  the  States  must  have 
been  keenly  feeling  the  situation,  and  per- 
haps more  than  we  do,  since  it  is  new  to  you. 
With  our  boys  out  there  fighting  like  demons, 
and  already  on  the  Vesle,  with  that  pocket 
between  the  Marne  and  Vesle  cleared  out, 
with  the  French  in  the  outskirts  of  Noyon, 
with  the  Australians  before  Peronne,  we 
are  feeling  uplifted,  but  I  know  that  on  your 
side  of  the  ocean,  where  the  casualty  lists  are 
a  new  experience,  you  are  probably  less  calm 
than  we  are,  who  are  so  used  to  it. 

I  cannot  find  exactly  the  right  words  to 
express  the  absolute  calm  which  reigns  here. 
It  seems  at  times  almost  unnatural  to  me. 
I  can't  quite  understand  it  in  myself.  I  sup- 
pose it  must  be  explained  by  the  four  years 
of  suffering,  and  perhaps  relief  from  a  sort 
of  subconscious  fear,  to  which  no  one  was 

[   18   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

willing  to  confess,  and  to  the  appalling  — 
there  is  no  other  word  for  it  —  sacrifices 
which  the  French  have  had  to  make.  Calm 
seems  to  be  fixed  on  them  all,  and,  as  it  is 
contagious,  I  seem  also  to  fall  under  it. 

I  have  often  thought  —  I  may  have  said 
this  to  you  before  —  it  is  so  hard  for  me  to 
keep  track  of  what  I  write  —  that  the  French 
will  never  fully  realize  their  losses  in  their 
naked  truth  until  the  army  comes  marching 
back.  Only  then,  I  fear,  when  women  and 
children  see  other  men  return  and  their  own 
not  in  the  ranks,  will  a  full  understanding 
come  to  them.  Do  you  realize  —  but  of 
course  you  can't  —  that  there  are  women 
about  me  here  whose  men  were  reported 
"  missing"  in  the  first  terrible  days  of  August 
and  September,  1914,  and  who  confidently 
hope  to  see  them  return?  That  happened 
in  1870.  Why  not  again?  Some  of  these 
hopes  may  be  justified,  but  alas,  how  few! 
This  time  the  work  of  the  Red  Cross  at  Ge- 
neva and  the  untiring  effort  of  the  King  of 
Spain  make  one  feel  that,  except  under  most 
extraordinary  circumstances,  the  missing  who 
have  survived  must  have  been  mostly  traced. 

I  have  had  a  queer  experience  since  I 
wrote  to  you.  It  was  almost  an  adventure, 
with  elements  which  might  be  suggestive  to 
a  play-maker.  I  have  hesitated  about  writ- 
ing it  to  you.  Still,  it  may  interest  you,  and 
it  is  an  illuminating  phase  of  war,  a  thing 

[   19   1 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

which  may  happen  often  in  any  army,  so  here 
it  is. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  2ist  —  that  was 
Wednesday  of  last  week  —  just  before  sun- 
down, I  was  going  out  of  the  gate  to  get 
Dick  from  Amelie's,  where  he  had  been 
having  his  supper  with  Kiki,  when  I  saw, 
coming  up  the  hill  from  Voisins,  a  soldier 
wearing  the  American  uniform.  He  was 
walking  close  to  the  hedge  by  my  garden, 
and  did  not  see  me  until  he  was  almost  at  the 
gate. 

I  ought  to  preface  this  by  emphasizing, 
what  you  probably  surmise,  that  any  man 
wearing  the  American  khaki  is  a  sort  of 
little  god  for  me,  to  whom  all  homage  is 
due,  and  who  has  a  perfect  right  to  anything 
of  mine,  if  he  wants  it.  That  they  are  not 
all  en  regie  and  perfect  Bayards  of  heroism 
—  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche  —  had  never 
occurred  to  me. 

I  had  supposed  that  I  still  looked  too 
American  to  escape  detection  from  my  coun- 
trymen. Evidently,  however,  my  environ- 
ment colours  me.  At  any  rate,  as  he  saw  me, 
he  stopped,  smiled,  pointed  to  a  cigarette 
case  I  carried  in  my  hand,  pointed  to  himself, 
and  with  a  marked  interrogatory  tone  said 
the  one  word: 

"Cigarette?" 

"Of  course,"  I  replied  with  a  laugh. 
"Won't  you  come  in?" 

[    20    ] 


He  looked  at  me,  a  bit  dazed,  and  said 
in  evident  astonishment:  'You  speak 
English?" 

"  Rather,"  I  answered. 
'You 're  English?" 

"Not  at  all.  I  am  as  good  an  American 
as  you  are."  And  I  held  out  the  cigarette 
case,  adding,  "  If  you  are  out  of  smokes  come 
in  and  let  me  fill  your  pocket.  I  always  keep 
them  for  the  boys  of  all  the  armies." 

After  an  imperceptible  hesitation  he 
laughed  and  followed  me  into  the  salon, 
where  I  gave  him  cigarettes  and  a  light. 
Then,  as  was  perfectly  natural,  I  asked  him 
to  what  branch  of  the  service  he  belonged, 
because,  while  he  was  perfectly  neat  and 
well  dressed,  there  was  no  insignia  on  his 
uniform  to  show  his  division  or  rank. 

He  said  he  was  an  aviator. 

Mind  you,  there  were  plenty  of  things 
about  this  interview  which  seemed  clear  to 
me  afterward,  but  I  must  impress  it  on 
you  again  that  up  to  that  day  I  would  have 
taken  the  word  of  any  boy  in  the  Ameri- 
can uniform.  I  always  have  to  learn  by 
experience. 

It  was  quite  natural  for  me  to  ask  him 
where  he  came  from.  He  answered  without 
hesitation:  "From  Le B ,"  nam- 
ing a  well  known  aviation  camp,  not  far  from 
Paris. 

I  asked  him  where  he  had  landed,  and  he 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

pointed  to  the  east,  and  said :  "  Just  over 
there." 

"At  Quincy?"  I  asked,  giving  him  the 
word  quite  naturally,  and  he  nodded  an 
acquiescence. 

As  there  is  a  broad  plain  there,  where 
more  than  one  aviator  had  made  a  landing, 
that  sounded  all  right. 

He  did  not  seem  to  be  making  much  con- 
versation, so,  to  keep  it  up,  I  asked  him  some 
more  questions.  The  first  was,  unfortu- 
nately, indiscreet  —  I  asked  him  what  he  was 
doing  here  all  alone.  The  instant  the  ques- 
tion was  out  of  my  mouth  I  knew  that  I  had 
no  business  to  ask  it.  So  I  was  not  surprised 
when,  instead  of  answering,  he  lighted  a 
match  and  took  another  cigarette.  Under 
the  cover  of  which,  and  to  conceal  my  con- 
fusion, I  asked  his  name. 

He  replied  without  hesitation  that  his 

name  was  Robert  W ,  and  volunteered 

the  information  that  his  father  was  at  the 
head  of  some  big  oil  wells  —  never  mind 
where.  You  will  understand  later  why  I  am 
no  more  explicit.  To  my  question  as  to  what 
he  did  in  civil  life,  he  said  that  he  was  a 
chauffeur.  "That  is  to  say,"  he  added, 
"  I  own  several  big  cars  and  take  rich  people 
out  on  long  joy  rides." 

That  sounded  all  right,  and  he  looked  the 
job.  He  was  a  tall,  straight,  well  set-up  lad, 
in,  I  judged,  his  early  twenties.  I  couldn't 

[    22    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

be  quite  sure  of  his  class  —  I  often  can't  with 
Americans.  The  type  I  did  not  think  about 
until  later.  While  he  seemed  perfectly  frank, 
and  was  absolutely  at  his  ease,  he  was  not  as 
talkative  as  most  of  the  boys  from  home 
whom  I  have  run  across  over  here.  I  thought 
instinctively  of  the  Marines  I  saw  here,  who, 
in  two  minutes,  had  told  me  all  about  home 
and  family,  their  school  days,  their  careers 
and  their  girls.  He  answered  my  questions 
with  perfect  ease  and  good  nature,  but  I 
could  not  call  him  expansive. 

With  no  reason  which  I  could  explain  I 
felt  nervous,  and  disliked  myself  for  it.  It 
did  not  seem  quite  according  to  Hoyle  that 
a  boy  of  his  age,  belonging  to  the  Flying 
Corps,  with  no  flying  insignia  on  his  collar 
or  his  cap,  should  be  roaming  about  alone 
inside  the  war  zone.  So  I  put  to  him  what 
seemed  to  me  the  crucial  question :  "  Of 
course  you  have  reported  to  the  military 
post?-" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  replied,  "  and  I  have  an 
appointment  with  a  French  officer  down 
there,"  and  he  indicated  the  direction  of 
Voisins,  from  which  he  was  coming  when  I 
first  saw  him. 

But,"  I  said,  "there  is  no  military  post 
at  Voisins." 

"  All  I  know,"  he  replied,  "  is  that  I  am 
to  meet  an  officer  there  who  speaks  English, 
at  nine  o'clock." 

[   23    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

It  was  at  that  time  eight.  I  dismissed  my 
doubts  from  my  mind.  What  did  I  know 
about  military  matters,  or  secret  missions 
or  the  habits  of  the  Flying  Corps?  So, 
when  he  said  to  me :  "I  wonder  if  you  know 
where  I  could  get  a  bed  for  the  night?" 
adding  "  I  can't  get  away  until  morning,  and 
there  seems  to  be  no  hotel  about  here," 
though,  instinctively,  I  did  not  care  to  take 
him  here,  I  said  that  my  housekeeper  could 
put  him  up,  and  I  led  him  to  Amelie's. 

All  the  children  on  the  hill  turned  out  to 
watch  him  go  by,  to  gaze  at  him  in  admira- 
tion and  salute  him  —  an  American  soldier 
is  a  hero  to  them. 

We  found  Amelie  feeding  her  rabbits,  and 
I  said:  "Amelie,  let  me  present  to  you 

Robert  W —of  the  American  Air  service. 

He  has  just  come  down  at  Quincy,  and  wants 
a  bed  for  the  night.  Will  you  please  to  make 
him  comfortable,  and  give  him  his  coffee  in 
the  morning?  I  presume  he  will  want* to  get 
off  early." 

So  Amelie  said,  "certainly,"  and  led  him  in 
to  show  him  his  room,  asking  me  to  explain 
to  him  that  she  would  leave  the  door  open, 
and  a  lamp  on  the  kitchen  table  and  he  could 
come  in  when  he  liked. 

He  thanked  her  prettily  in  English,  which 
she  smilingly  pretended  to  understand  —  she 
did  understand  the  intention — and  he  walked 
back  with  mo  to  the  garden,  where  he  sat 

[   24   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

quietly,  talking,  practically  about  nothing  — 
I  could  not  afterward  remember  one  thing 
he  had  said,  except  that  the  view  was  pretty 
—  until  a  quarter  to  nine,  when  he  bade  me 
"good  night"  and  strolled  down  the  hill  to 
Voisins. 

As  I  looked  after  him,  I  noticed  that  he 
walked  close  to  the  hedge  as  he  had  done  in 
coming  up  the  hill. 

I  came  into  the  house,  and,  oddly  enough, 
at  once  forgot  all  about  him,  nor  did  I  again 
think  of  him  until  Amelie  came  in  the  morn- 
ing when  she  volunteered  the  information 
that  he  had  come  in  at  midnight,  that  he  had 
taken  a  "big  bath,"  and  she  had  left  him 
over  his  coffee,  and  he  had  a  hearty  appetite, 
and  after  a  moment,  she  added:  "I  am 
afraid,  Madame,  that  he  had  no  dinner  last 
night.  Do  you  know  that  the  poor  lad  has 
not  a  sou?  He  made  me  understand  that 
when  I  showed  him  his  breakfast  tray  —  he 
emptied  his  pockets,  nothing  in  them.  He 
has  not  got  even  a  revolver.  I  made  him 
understand  that  he  was  to  eat — I  did  not 
want  his  money.  But  isn't  it  a  bit  queer  for 
an  aviator  like  that  to  be  flying  around  with- 
out a  sou  in  his  pockets  ?  " 

I  rather  thought  it  was.  Still,  I  had  seen 
Americans  before  with  empty  pockets,  — 
some  even  whose  pockets  had  been  empty  for 
months. 

I  was  still  at  the  table,  over  my  own  coffee, 

[   25   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

when  he  came  into  the  garden,  and  I  told 
Amelie  to  send  him  in.  He  came  and  stood 
in  the  doorway  of  the  dining-room,  to  thank 
me  for  my  hospitality,  and  to  ask  me  to  con- 
vey properly  his  thanks  to  Amelie.  His 
manner  was  absolutely  correct.  He  assured 
me  that  it  had  been  a  great  pleasure  to  en- 
counter a  fellow  countrywoman  so  unexpect- 
edly in  a  little  French  hamlet  like  this,  and 
that  it  would  be  a  joy  to  him  to  tell  his  chums 
at  the  camp  about  it,  and  that  he  hoped  later 
to  have  the  happiness  of  coming  back  to  see 
me,  and  bringing  some  of  the  boys  with  him. 
Then  he  shook  hands  with  me,  and  passed 
through  the  kitchen  to  shake  hands  with 
Amelie,  and  started  down  the  hill  toward 
Voisins. 

On  the  way  out  of  the  gate  he  met  Louise 
coming  in.  It  was  a  Thursday  —  her  day  for 
working  in  the  garden.  She  was  still  at  the 
gate,  gazing  after  him  when  I  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"  Good  morning,  Madame,"  she  said. 
"What's  that  chap  doing  here?" 

I  explained  that  he  was  an  American  avi- 
ator who  had  come  down  at  Quincy,  and 
that  he  had  slept  at  Amelie's,  and  was  on 
his  way  back  to  his  machine. 

Louise  stared  at  me.  Then  she  made  one 

of  those  queer,  derisive,  upward  jerks  with 

her    elbow  —  you   know   the    gesture  —  and 

said,  with  an  expressive  grunt:  "Not  much 

[   26   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

he  is  n't.  No  avion  has  landed  at  Quincy  for 
weeks.  Why  that  chap  has  been  hanging 
around  here  for  almost  a  week.  He  does  n't 
care  much  to  be  seen  —  except  by  the  women. 
I've  been  watching  him,  and  I  notice  that 
whenever  a  soldier  is  in  sight,  or  an  automo- 
bile, he  hides.  I've  seen  him  lying  in  bushes 
by  the  roadside.  They  say  he  can't  speak 
more  than  two  words  of  French.  He  has  n't 
any  money.  He  has  eaten  in  half  a  dozen 
houses  —  welcome  for  his  beaux  yeux  and 
his  uniform,  I  suppose.  Of  course  it  is  a  fine 
thing  to  be  a  good-looking  youngster  in  an 
American  uniform,  I  can  tell  you,  in  these 
days,  and  plenty  of  the  girls  down  below 
have  been  trailing  round  with  that  lad  in  the 
woods  down  on  the  Pave  de  Roize.  All  I 
can  say  is  that  he'd  better  look  to  himself  if 
any  of  our  boys  come  home  en  permission 
before  he  lights  out." 

I  stood  perfectly  aghast  during  this  tirade, 
and  once  Louise  is  started  nothing  stops  the 
torrent  of  words  but  lack  of  breath.  You 
know  there  is  nothing  sentimental  about 
Louise.  All  the  suspicions  against  which  I 
had  struggled  flashed  through  my  mind  with 
the  rapidity  of  a  cinema  film.  Behind  them 
rushed  things  of  which  I  had  not  thought. 
His  name  of  four  letters  might  be  spelled 
in  two  ways  —  one  English,  one  German, 
and  both  equally  common  in  the  States.  His 
blonde  good  looks  were  distinctly  German, 

[   27   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

though  of  a  type  so  familiar  to  us  that  we 
rarely  think  of  its  origin. 

To  make  the  situation  more  tormenting 
for  me  I  remembered  that  we  had  already 
been  warned  that  German  avions  were  land- 
ing spies  behind  the  lines,  and,  for  reasons 
which  I  dare  not  write  you  just  now,  the 
presence  of  a  German  spy  here,  at  this  mo- 
ment, would  be  rather  —  shall  I  say, 
annoying? 

I  was  terribly  perplexed.  This  was  a  sort 
of  dilemma  I  had  never  expected  to  encoun- 
ter. I  had  acted  in  perfect  good  faith  in  put- 
ting him  up.  Only  you  see  there  is  a  formal 
order  against  harbouring  any  passers-by 
whose  papers  have  not  been  properly  exam- 
ined and  stamped  by  civil  or  military  author- 
ities. I  knew  perfectly  well  that  if  he  had 
not  been  an  American  I  should  have  man- 
aged to  see  his  papers.  But  with  that  idea, 
of  which  I  told  you,  that  anything  in  Yankee 
uniform  was  all  right,  I  had  accepted  his 
assurance  that  he  had  seen  the  military  com- 
mander and  let  it  go  at  that. 

Of  course  I  knew  that  he  might  be  a  de- 
serter— but  then  he  might  be  the  other  thing. 
I  hated  the  word  deserter.  I  don't  know 
which  I  had  rather  he  turned  out  to  be. 

It  takes  me  much  longer  to  tell  you  this 

than  it  did  for  me  to  decide  what  to  do.     I 

knew  that,  with  the  fondness  there  is  among 

these  simple  people  for  the  Americans,  he 

[   28   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

was  sure  of  food  and  a  certain  kind  of  pro- 
tection until  some  accident  brought  him  to 
the  notice  of  the  authorities,  who  are  the 
very  last  persons  to  hear  of  this  sort  of  thing. 
If  he  were  a  clever  spy  he  would  see  all  he 
wanted  to  and  could  wait  about  until  the 
avion  that  landed  him  —  if  one  had  —  could 
get  him  off.  Having  no  money  might  be  part 
of  the  clever  game. 

"Amelie,"  I  called  out,  as  I  ran  to  the 
house,  "  put  Ninette  into  the  cart.  I  am 
going  for  a  little  drive,"  and  I  hurried  in, 
put  a  long  coat  over  my  morning  dress,  tied 
a  big  veil  over  my  cap,  and  grabbing  my 
gloves  and  whip,  ran  for  the  stable,  and 
fifteen  minutes  after  the  lad  had  left  my  gate 
I  was  on  my  way  to  the  military  post  at 
Quincy.  I  had  to  laugh  at  the  idea  of  hurry- 
ing, for  nothing,  even  the  cry  "  the  country  is 
in  danger,"  would  hurry  Ninette. 

I  looked  all  along  the  road  for  the  boy. 
No  sign  of  him.  As  I  approached  the  cha- 
teau, where  I  could  see  across  the  plain,  I 
scanned  it  with  my  glass  —  there  was  no 
aeroplane  in  sight. 

At  the  military  post  I  found  the  Major, 
and  explained  the  situation.  He  took  the 
story  as  seriously  as  I  could  ask.  He  walked 
excitedly  up  and  down  the  room  in  deep 
thought  before  he  said :  "  I  am  inclined  to 
think  the  boy  is  a  deserter  —  there  are  a  lot 
of  them.  You  see  an  American  deserter 

[   29   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

seems  to  be  a  very  special  article.  It  is  not 
that  they  desert  from  cowardice.  They  are 
not  accustomed  yet  to  military  discipline. 
Sometimes  they  get  ugly  at  being  reproved  — 
run  away  in  a  temper  —  don't  realize  what 
they  are  doing  until  it  is  too  late  —  or  —  so 
I  am  told — most  frequently  of  all,  they  get 
bored  in  camp  and  run  away  hoping  to  get 
to  the  front,  and  *  get  in  it,'  as  they  call  it. 
Then  they  get  lost  and  turn  up  in  odd  places. 
Anyway,  once  they  light  out — for  no  matter 
what  reason  —  they  don't  seem  to  know  how 
to  get  back.  As  a  rule  we  don't  care  to  in- 
terfere. It  is  a  matter  for  the  American 
police.  But,  considering  the  situation  here, 
I  think  we  must  know  who  he  is." 

So  he  rang  up  the  gendarmerie  at  Esbly, 
and  explained  the  case  to  the  captain.  That 
done,  he  said  to  me:  "  If  the  lad  comes  back 
to  you,  you  had  better  take  him  in,  without 
asking  any  questions,  treat  him  exactly  as 
you  did  yesterday  —  and  manage  to  get  word 
to  me,  and  we  will  come  and  take  him.  Is 
he  armed  at  all?" 

I  told  him  that  I  thought  not;  he  wore 
no  revolver,  and  that  Amelie  had  said  that 
he  had  none.  She  had  seen  him  turn  out  his 
pockets.  So  he  said  that  was  all  right  — 
there  was  nothing  to  worry  about,  —  and 
he  thanked  me,  and  I  came  home,  feeling 
anything  but  happy. 

I  felt  pretty  certain  that  he  would  not  re- 

[   30   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

turn  to  my  house,  for,  innocent  as  he  had 
found  me  of  any  suspicions,  he  had  closed 
up  his  story  so  well  that  he  had  better  not 
re-open  it  here.  I  could  not  help  wondering 
what  he  had  done  between  nine  o'clock  and 
midnight  of  the  night  before.  Anyway,  I 
felt  certain  that  he  would  not  risk  a  second 
visit  even  for  a  good  bed  and  a  breakfast. 
However,  I  hunted  up  a  wheel,  and  a  boy  to 
ride  it,  if  necessary,  without  explaining  at 
all. 

At  tea  time  Amelie  remarked  that  Louise 
was  evidently  perfectly  right  about  the  boy, 
as  she  had  seen  him  about  three  o'clock 
going  across  the  field  north  of  my  garden, 
and  had  been  told  that  he  had  spent  a  couple 
of  hours  in  the  garden  of  a  retired  French 
Commandant  who  lives  in  what  we  call  the 
"  Chateau  de  Huiry  " — you  know  the  largest 
house  in  a  French  hamlet  is  always  known 
as  the  "  chateau,"  even  when  it  is  only  a 
modest  villa. 

I  was  distressed,  but  I  had  to  do  my  duty. 
So  I  trudged  round  by  the  road  —  I  hated  to 
do  it — and  asked  the  Commandant,  who, 
in  his  shirt  sleeves,  was  working  in  the  gar- 
den, if  the  American  boy  had  been  there. 
The  Commandant,  a  handsome  old  chap, 
who  lives  like  a  recluse,  having  nothing  to  do 
with  his  neighbours,  —  is  a  grumpy  charac- 
ter. He  answered  that  an  American  soldier 
had  been  there,  but  in  a  tone  that  said  plainly 

[   31   J 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

that  it  was  none  of  my  business.  I  explained 
that  I  wanted  to  see  the  lad,  and  asked  him, 
in  case  he  should  turn  up  again,  if  he  would 
be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  know. 

I  rather  imagine  the  old  chap  had  had  his 
own  suspicions  aroused.  If  he  had  not,  I 
don't  know  why  he  should  have  jumped  at  me 
as  he  did.  He  accused  me  of  hunting  the  boy 
down.  I  was  at  some  pains  to  explain  the 
situation,  which  seemed  to  me  simple  —  that 
no  American  soldier  could  hope  to  roam 
aimlessly  about  in  the  war  zone  without  the 
risk  of  being,  sooner  or  later,  asked  to  show 
his  papers.  That  was  all  I  wanted. 

'  You  had  him  in  your  house  yesterday," 
remarked  the  Commandant.  "Why  didn't 
you  see  them  then?  " 

I  had  to  confess  that  I  had  been  silly 
enough  to  accept  the  story  he  told,  but  that  I 
found  out  afterward  that  it  was  untrue.  I 
wanted  to  know  why  he  had  lied. 

"Are  you  afraid?"  asked  the  Comman- 
dant. 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

'  You  have  only  to  lock  your  doors  if 
you  are  afraid  he  will  come  back,"  he  growled. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  won't  come  back,"  I 
replied,  "that's  why  I  came  here  to  ask  you 
to  send  him  to  me  if  you  saw  him." 

"  Well,"  he  added,  going  back  to  his  dig- 
ging, "  I  reckon  he  's  harmless." 

"That  may  be,"  I  said,  "but  I  think  we 

[  32   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

had  better  make  sure  of  that.  If  his  papers 
are  in  order  it  will  not  hurt  him  to  show 
them.  If  they  are  not,  then  he  is  either  a 
deserter  or  a  spy.  I  propose  to  find  out 
which,  if  I  can." 

The  Commandant  snapped  out  something 
to  the  effect  that  it  was  an  unpretty  business 
for  a  woman  to  be  hunting  down  one  of 
her  own  compatriots,  to  which  I  made  the 
obvious  response: 

'That  is  just  it.  Is  he  an  American? 
He  is  wearing  the  uniform,  and  all  I  want  to 
know  is  whether  he  has  the  right  to  wear  it. 
If  he  wore  the  bleu  d'horizon  I  should  leave 
him  to  your  discretion."  And  I  marched  out 
of  the  garden,  feeling  as  uncomfortable  as 
possible.  I  had  done  what  seemed  to  me  my 
duty.  I  left  it  at  that. 

However,  before  night  I  heard  of  him 
again.  Louise  stopped  on  her  way  back  from 
the  fields  to  say  that  he  had  his  supper  with 
one  of  her  neighbors  on  the  heights  of  Voi- 
sins.  I  had  not  told  her  that  we  were  look- 
ing for  him.  I  told  no  one,  except  the  Com- 
mandant, and  there  was  no  danger  of  his 
telling  any  one.  He  never  speaks  to  any  one 
if  he  can  avoid  it.  So  it  looked  as  if  there 
were  every  chance  of  his  hanging  about  until 
the  gendarmes  arrived. 

Early  the  next  morning  —  before  I  was  up 
—  the  Captain  of  the  gendarmes  knocked  at 
my  door.  I  slipped  on  a  big  coat  and  went 

[  33  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

down  to  talk  with  him.  He  seemed  inclined 
to  think  the  lad  was  simply  a  deserter.  So 
after  he  heard  what  I  had  to  say  he  went  on 
to  Quincy  to  talk  with  the  officers  of  the 
military  post  and  the  mayor.  I  supposed 
my  part  was  done. 

But  can  you  imagine  anything  more  absurd 
than  for  a  lad  to  desert  in  a  warring  country, 
when  he  does  not  speak  a  word  of  the  lan- 
guage, and  without  a  sou  in  his  pocket? 
The  boy  was  intelligent,  you  know.  It 
seemed  to  me  pretty  terrible  for  him,  and  if 
he  were  a  deserter,  it  seemed  to  me  the 
sooner  he  was  run  down  the  better  for  his 
own  sake. 

I  tried  to  dismiss  the  thing  from  my  mind, 
but  I  was  not  allowed  to,  for  in  the  afternoon 
the  mayor  sent  word,  asking  me  to  meet 
him  at  an  unfinished  house  at  the  top  of  the 
hill,  at  the  Demi-Lune.  That  innocent- 
looking,  apparently  empty  house  conceals  a 
military  post  with  telephone,  telegraph, 
rockets  for  signalling,  and  inside,  day  and 
night,  there  is  a  guard  of  soldiers.  There 
was  no  one  but  me  here  who  could  act  as  in- 
terpreter if  they  ran  him  down. 

There,  before  the  telephone,  in  an  empty 
room  with  stacks  of  guns,  and  huge  rockets 
standing  in  the  corners,  we  sat  for  an  hour 
trying  to  find  some  trace  of  where  the  boy 
came  from.  The  aviation  camp  at  Le  B  — 
had  no  record  of  any  such  person  as  Robert 

[  34  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

W ,  name  spelt  either  way  —  and  no 

aviator  was  missing  who  corresponded  to 
our  description  of  him.  So  we  ended  by 
calling  up  the  headquarters  at  Meaux,  and 
reported  the  case,  and  I  walked  home. 

Half  an  hour  after  I  left  the  post  the 
lad  was  discovered  lying  at  his  ease  against 
the  bank  behind  that  empty  house,  under  a 
wall  eight  feet  high  built  on  top  of  the  bank, 
which  is  steep.  He  was  not  fifty  feet  from 
the  open  window  beside  which  was  the  tele- 
phone at  which  we  had  been  talking.  Four 
soldiers  had  tried  to  creep  up  on  him,  but  he 
saw  them  and  did  a  pas  de  gymnastique 
which  was  a  brilliant  success.  He  sprang  at 
the  wall,  from  what  must  have  been  a  mis- 
erable footing,  and  went  over.  Not  one  of 
the  French  soldiers  could  follow,  and  there 
being  no  gate  on  that  side,  they  had  to  make 
a  wide  detour,  and  although  they  sprinted 
for  it,  by  the  time  they  were  around,  he  had 
disappeared. 

That  was  the  end  of  his  being  seen  about 
here.  He  had  understood  that  he  was 
wanted.  All  sorts  of  rumours  flew  about 
when  it  was  known  that  the  gendarmes  from 
Meaux  and  Esbly  were  after  him.  Some 
said  he  was  hiding  in  the  woods  on  the  canal, 
where  the  Uhlans  hid  in  September,  1914, 
when  the  Yorkshires  and  Bedfords  were  here 
before  the  opening  of  the  first  battle  of  the 
Marne.  All  sorts  of  suspicions  were  afloat 

[  35  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

regarding  a  girl  who  was  supposed  to  be 
going  into  the  woods  at  night  to  feed  him, 
which  would  have  been  easy  to  do.  There 
were  even  people  who  claimed  to  have  heard 
the  Boche  avion  arrive  in  the  night  to  take 
him  off.  Anyway,  he  had  vanished  into 
space,  and  apparently  left  no  trace,  and  im- 
agination being  a  French  quality,  no  one 
wanted  the  incident  to  end  tamely,  as  it 
seemed  to  have  done. 

Then,  suddenly,  one  morning,  we  heard 
that  he  had  been  caught,  and  put  into  the 
prison  at  Esbly,  until  the  American  Mili- 
tary Police  could  take  him  over.  Almost  the 
next  minute  we  heard  that  he  had  broken 
out  of  prison  the  first  night,  and  the  gen- 
darmes were  after  him  again.  Twenty- 
four  hours  later  they  had  caught  him 
again. 

And  that's  all. 

I  am  glad  that  I  am  a  long  way  off,  so  that 
you  can't  throw  anything  at  me. 

No,  I  don't  know  whether  he  was  a  de- 
serter or  a  spy,  and  I  don't  know  what  be- 
came of  him.  I  didn't  like  not  being  able  to 
have  any  sequel  to  the  incident  any  better 
than  you  will. 

The  next  time  I  met  the  mayor  I  took  the 
liberty  of  asking  about  it.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  spread  out  his  hands  —  that 
was  all.  I  got  for  my  pains.  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
been  to  see  an  exciting  melodrama,  and  been 

[  36  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

told  when  the  Curtain  fell  on  the  fourth  act 
that  the  fifth  act  had  been  lost  and  the  au- 
thor was  dead.  It  was  more  irritating  than 
"Edwin  Drood,"  and  only  interesting  to 
you  as  showing  the  sort  of  thing  that  can 
happen  in  a  thinly  populated  country  in  these 
days  when  the  smallest  incident  out  of  the 
common  gets  projected  into  great  visibility. 
One  can  hide  in  a  city.  It  is  difficult  in  the 
country. 

Apart  from  that  nothing  Very  exciting 
has  happened  here.  We  are  still  kept  aware 
of  the  continued  activity  of  the  Germans  in 
the  air  by  an  occasional  barrage  in  broad 
daylight,  which  is  a  novelty,  and  evidently 
means  that  the  Boche  observers  are  trying 
to  photograph,  although  why,  at  this  late 
day,  they  should  be  observing  so  far  behind 
the  lines  is  hard  to  understand,  unless  some- 
thing is  going  on  of  which  we  are  ignorant. 
We  saw  something  rather  unusual  on  the 
morning  of  the  22d.  I  was  in  the  garden  at 
the  top  of  the  hill  cutting  flowers.  Suddenly 
the  guns  at  the  forts  at  Chelles  and  Vaucluse 
began  to  bark  —  the  guns  of  the  D.C.A. 
have  a  very  different  sound  from  any  others. 
I  straightened  up  and  looked  off  to  the  west, 
just  as  Amelie  appeared  in  the  kitchen  door, 
and  called:  "A  barrage!  Come  into  the 
house  this  minute." 

Before  I  could  obey  Abelard  came  running 
down  the  hill,  calling,  as  he  pointed  into  the 

[  37   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

air:  "Just  over  the  house.  Look  quick  — 
there  they  are !  " 

I  looked  up,  and  there,  high  in  the  sky, 
right  over  the  salon  chimney,  a  group  of 
round  white  puffs  were  widening,  thinning 
and  floating  away,  like  fluffs  of  cotton  wool. 
While  I  was  watching  them,  fascinated  by 
the  idea,  that  right  over  us,  invisible  to 
our  naked  eyes,  a  German  avion  had  passed 
pursued  by  the  shrapnel  from  the  fort,  came 
a  second  volley,  and  a  little  to  the  north  of 
the  fading  white  puffs  floating  so  innocently 
over  us,  a  second  group  appeared,  and  began 
to  swell  and  float,  and  then  a  third  one,  still 
more  to  the  north,  and  we  realized  that  the 
invader  was  making  for  the  frontier  —  and 
had  escaped. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning.  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  a  strange  sensation  it  gave  me  to 
stand  out  there  in  the  sunlight,  looking  over 
such  a  peaceful  scene,  and  up  into  such  a 
pretty  sky,  and  to  see  those  soft  white  balls 
floating  away,  and  realize  what  it  meant.  We 
have  seen  the  same  thing  several  times  since, 
and  once  on  a  cloudy  day,  when  the  bursting 
shrapnel  projected  against  the  white  clouds 
looked  almost  black.  Alas !  we  have  never 
seen  a  machine  brought  down.  The  only 
explanation  of  an  experience  like  this  so  late 
in  the  war  is  a  tremendous  amount  of  move- 
ment on  our  roads. 

I  am  planning  to  go  to  Versailles  again  for 

[   38   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

at  least  one  Sunday.  The  place  is  still  full 
of  American  soldiers,  but  there  are  com- 
paratively few  visitors.  So  it  is  an  ideal 
time  to  go.  I  shall  not  go  before  next  week 
and  shall  be  back  by  the  first  of  September. 


[  39  ] 


Ill 

September  12,  1918 

IT  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been  terribly 
busy  since  I  last  wrote  to  you,  yet  I  cannot 
truthfully  say  that  I  have  accomplished  a 
great  deal.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  move 
about  so  much  more  freely  than  I  used,  that 
I  feel  busier  than  I  really  am.  Now  that  the 
Commander  of  the  Fifth  Army  gives  me  a 
sauf  conduit  good  for  three  months,  and  I 
can,  for  the  first  time  in  over  three  years,  go 
wherever  I  like,  quite  freed  from  all  the  for- 
malities and  red  tape  that  so  long  made 
leaving  my  gate  difficult,  it  may  be  that  I  feel 
as  if  I  moved  round  more  than  I  really  do. 

I  came  back  from  Versailles  on  the  first, 
as  I  told  you  I  should.  I  brought  a  visitor 
with  me  —  an  American  journalist  —  the 
very  first  person  who  has  succeeded  in  get- 
ting a  permit  to  come  here  for  many  long 
months.  The  power  of  the  Press  is  mighty. 

I  don't  believe  you  can  imagine  what  a 
great  event  a  visitor  was  for  us.  We  have 
had  callers  —  military,  usually —  but  this 
was  our  first  visitor  since  1915,  —  unless  I 
call  officers  who  are  cantooned  here  visitors. 

[  40   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

The  event  had  its  humorous  side  —  and 
the  humour  was  consoling. 

When  I  went  to  Paris,  on  the  afternoon 
of  August  3Oth,  I  left  the  hill  looking  quite 
warlike.  When  I  came  back  forty-eight 
hours  later,  it  was  as  if  a  wand  had  been 
waved,  with  the  talismanic  "presto-change!" 
Every  sign  of  military  operations  had  dis- 
appeared. I  can't  tell  you  the  impression 
the  change  made  on  me,  but  I  am  sure  you 
can  realize  how  wonderfully  comforting  it 
was,  since  the  change  and  the  calm  said  "  All 
goes  well  at  the  front." 

Of  course,  as  the  man  from  New  York 
had  come  down  to  sniff  at  the  war  zone,  it 
was  really  rather  a  joke  on  him.  He  thought 
the  joke  was  on  me. 

One  thing,  at  least,  it  does  allow  me  — 
that  is  the  chance  of  explaining  to  you  why 
we  were  so  disturbed  by  the  presence  here 
of  a  possible  spy,  of  which  I  wrote  you  in 
my  last  letter. 

For  many,  many  weeks,  as  I  told  you  in  the 
summer,  our  road  has  been  given  over  to 
the  army  movements.  It  is  the  direct  road 
to  Rheims,  Soissons,  and  Chateau-Thierry, 
Verdun,  and  many  other  points  on  the  front. 
Over  it  thousands  of  American  as  well  as 
French  troops  have  passed  on  the  way  to  the 
Marne.  In  fact  it  had  become  what  the  mili- 
tary calls  a  "Route  Gardee"  —  patrolled 
and  picketed. 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

All  the  way  from  St.  Germain  to  Meaux 
about  every  thirty  yards,  on  both  sides  of  the 
road,  tall  posts  held  up  huge  signs  on  which 
in  large  letters  were  printed  the  words : 

ROUTE   GARDEE  ROUTE  GARDEE  ROUTE  GARDEE 

TENEZ   a  DROITE  °r  NE    STATIONNEZ   PAS  °r  NE  DOUBLEZ  PAS 

At  the  entrance  to  St.  Germain,  at  Couilly, 
at  Quincy,  as  well  as  at  the  top  of  our  hill, 
big  board  signs  bore  the  name  of  the  town, 
at  the  entrance  of  the  town  on  the  right  hand 
side  of  the  road,  and  at  the  exit  on  the  left, 
while  big  arrows  indicated  the  direction  of 
Paris,  Meaux,  Melun,  Coulommiers,  —  all 
done  in  characters  so  big  that  drivers  of 
flying  automobiles,  so  many  of  them  stran- 
gers and  travelling  by  maps,  could  read, 
without  slackening  speed,  where  they  were 
and  whither  they  were  headed.  Signs 
printed  with  equal  clearness  indicated  at 
the  entrance  to  each  town  the  presence  of 
a  military  post,  and  the  location  of  repair 
shop,  the  doctor,  the  military  hospital,  the 
cantine,  and  the  commander  of  the  post. 
But  for  that  matter  all  France,  from  the 
entrance  to  the  war  zone  to  the  front,  is 
similarly  ornamented,  and  many  of  the 
roads  resemble  the  approaches  to  a  circus 
ground. 

More  important  than  all  here  was  the  fact 
that,  at  the  foot  of  our  hill,  in  the  yard  of 
the  railway  station,  was  a  huge  ammunition 
park,  and,  at  the  corner,  where  the  road 

[   42   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

turns  off  to  approach  the  front  of  the  station, 
and  at  the  entrance  to  the  station-yard,  were 
huge  signs,  painted  red  and  blue  in  triangular 
sections,  on  which  in  white  letters  —  making 
the  tricolors,  —  with  a  huge  hand  pointed 
into  the  station-yard,  —  were  the  cabalistic 
initials  which  told  the  camion  drivers  that 
this  was  an  ammunition  depot  for  both  heavy 
and  light  artillery. 

To  and  from  the  front,  by  night  as  well 
as  by  day,  ever  since  the  big  offensive  began, 
heavy  camions  and  lorries  have  rushed  up 
and  down  the  hill,  making  it  more  than 
usually  difficult  for  us  to  use  the  road.  You 
can  judge  from  this  that  it  hardly  seemed 
comforting  to  me  to  think  of  a  possible 
spy  being  around,  and  that  will  explain  to 
you  why  I  was  a  bit  nervous  over  the  possi- 
bility when  the  roving  American  soldier, 
about  whom  I  wrote  you,  turned  up  here.  I 
had  a  vision  of  what  Couilly  would  look  like 
if  a  flyer  let  fall  a  bomb  on  the  railway  sta- 
tion one  night,  as  one  did  on  La  Ferte-sur- 
Jouarre  in  July. 

I  did  not  dare  explain  this  to  you  in  my  last 
letter.  This  time  I  risk  it.  This  was  the 
condition  when  I  started  for  Paris,  en  route 
for  Versailles.  But,  thank  the  gods,  things 
have  changed  since  then. 

Oh,  before  I  forget  it,  I  must  tell  you 
something  —  the  sort  of  thing  for  which  you 
are  always  so  eager  —  about  our  boys.  The 

[  43   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

truth  is,  I  never  see  one  of  them  strolling 
along  the  road  —  just  out  for  a  walk  from 
some  near-by  camp,  —  that  I  don't  feel  it  to 
be  my  duty  to  take  a  snap  shot  of  him  for 
you.  But,  alas !  no  camera  is  allowed  in  the 
war  zone. 

You  must  know  that  whenever  I  go  to  the 
station  to  catch  a  train  I  always  arrive  at 
least  half  an  hour  ahead  of  time.  I  have  to 
make  a  big  allowance  for  fear  that  the  road 
may  be  full  of  camions,  and  that  I  may  have 
to  make  a  detour  by  way  of  Moulignon.  It 
is  a  much  prettier  road,  but  it  is  half  as  long 
again.  I  never  mind  waiting  for  the  train, 
as  there  is  always  something  going  on  at  the 
station,  and  it  is  rare  that  I  do  not  find  some 
American  boys  there. 

I  am  always  —  every  day  of  life  —  thank- 
ful that  I  am  an  old  white-haired  woman. 
It  gives  me  the  blessed  privilege  of  being  able 
to  speak  to  them,  and  risk  no  misunderstand- 
ing. I  simply  love  to  see  their  faces  light  up 
at  the  sound  of  a  greeting  in  English.  They 
give  one  look  of  surprise,  and  then  they 
simply  drop  to  it,  with  a  comprehensive 
glance  at  the  tiny  American  flag  which  I  wear 
in  honour  of  the  Chicago  woman  who  sent  it 
across  the  big  pond  to  me,  and  the  insignia 
of  the  Red  Cross  under  it,  which  is  all  the 
introduction  I  need. 

As  usual,  the  other  morning,  a  number  of 
French  poilus  and  young  girls  of  the  village 

[   44   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

were  standing  about,  watching  a  group  of 
Americans.  They  —  the  French  young 
people  —  are  always  tremendously  interested 
in  the  Americans,  and  by  a  sort  of  free-ma- 
sonry, they  seem  to  manage  to  carry  on  a 
sort  of  conversation,  consisting  principally 
of  gestures  and  laughs.  One  thing  that  al- 
ways surprises  and  amuses  the  French  is  to 
see  the  American,  before  he  gets  down  to 
business,  strip  off  his  coat  and  roll  his 
shirtsleeves  up  to  his  elbows.  There  they 
were  this  morning  —  although  the  day 
was  far  from  warm  —  in  their  thin  khaki 
shirts,  with  their  sun-bronzed  arms  bare. 
You  'd  never  catch  a  French  soldier  taking 
off  his  jacket,  although  theirs  are  heavier 
and  longer  and  more  cumbersome  than  those 
worn  by  our  boys.  I  am  told,  so  strong  is 
the  habit,  that  at  the  front,  many  of  the 
Americans  stripped  off  their  coats  and  threw 
them  away  before  going  over  the  top,  and  I 
can  believe  it,  can't  you? 

A  group  of  American  camion  drivers 
stood  near  the  station  door,  as  I  drove  up. 
They  turned  to  watch  Ninette  with  amuse- 
ment, then  gave  a  quick  start  of  surprise, 
when  I  offered  them  the  conventional  greet- 
ing: "Hulloa,  boys,"  and  they  simply 
beamed  on  me.  As  I  climbed  out  of  the 
little  cart  they  came  forward  to  shake  hands. 

A  round-faced  lad  —  a  real  mother's  boy 
—  said:  "You're  an  American?" 

[  45  1 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  said  that  I  was  —  from  Boston. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  over?"  he 
asked,  with  a  glance  at  the  Red  Cross  pin. 
I  told  him  that  I  was  afraid  that  I  had  been 
over  considerably  longer  than  he  had. 

"  You  poor  thing,"  he  said.  "  When  are 
you  going  home?" 

I  told  him  that  I  did  not  know,  and  some- 
how I  did  not  add  "perhaps  never!" 

"Lord,"  he  sighed,  "I  wish  you'd  go 
to-morrow  and  take  me  with  you." 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  I'm  sorry  you  don't  like 
it  at  all.  I  had  hoped  you  boys  would  like 
it  a  little  —  just  enough  to  make  you  glad  to 
have  seen  it." 

"  Oh,  it 's  all  right  enough,  I  suppose.  The 
country  is  pretty,  but  I  don't  seem  to  hanker 
for  anything  just  now  but  good  little  old 
United  States,"  and  he  cast  a  wistful  look 
toward  the  west,  as  if  out  there  he  could  see 
it.  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  be  able  to  find  the 
right  word  unless  I  wanted  to  see  him  water 
the  sentiment  with  a  few  good  old  American 
tears.  I  must  confess  that  I  did  not  hit  it  as 
well  as  I  might  have,  when  I  said : 

"  Oh,  well,  you  may  be  going  back  to  it 
sooner  than  you  dream.  Besides,  only  think 
how  they  are  all  adoring  you  over  there,  and 
all  the  girls  are  preparing  to  go  quite  mad 
about  you  when  you  go  home,  and  the  whole 
country  will  give  you  such  a  home-coming 
greeting  that  it  will  have  been  quite  worth 

[   46   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

while  to  have  gone  overseas  for  the  joy  of 
being  so  cheered  as  you  will  be  when  you 
march  down  Broadway  again." 

He  looked  vaguely  west  again,  and  almost 
choked  as  he  replied,  with  an  attempt 
to  smile:  "Lord!  That  will  be  a  great 
day,  won't  it?  Wonder  if  I  '11  be  there? 
There  are  more  ways  than  one  of  '  going 
west.'  " 

Luckily,  one  of  his  comrades  clapped  him 
on  the  shoulder  before  I  could  reply,  and 
answered: 

"  You  bet  you  '11  be  there.  We  all  shall," 
and  then  we  all  laughed.  It  was  the  easiest 
thing  to  do.  That  was  the  first  case  of  this 
sort  that  I  had  ever  met.  I  assure  you  that 
a  great  many  of  the  boys  are  having  the 
time  of  their  lives,  and  are  laying  up  ad- 
ventures and  hoarding  memories  which  will 
affect  their  whole  existence,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  the  majority  of  them  still  have  their 
eyes  fixed  on  home.  I  only  tell  you  this, 
just  as  I  told  you  the  story  in  my  last  letter, 
because  you  are  always  asking  for  such 
anecdotes. 

Well,  that  was  the  way  I  left  things  when 
I  went  down  the  hill.  When  I  returned  and 
led  my  New  York  visitor  up  the  hill  — 
everything  was  changed.  Every  sign  of  war 
had  disappeared  as  if  by  magic.  The  am- 
munition park  had  gone.  The  Route  Na- 
tionale  was  no  longer  guarded.  The  big 

[   47   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

signs  along  the  roadside  had  been  taken 
down  —  all  save  those  indicating  the  names 
of  the  towns  and  the  directions.  The  mili- 
tary post  was  no  longer  here.  As  we  drove 
up  the  hill  we  did  not  meet  a  single  automo- 
bile, let  alone  a  camion.  There  was  no  sign 
that  there  was  a  war,  or  had  ever  been  one. 
A  few  old  men  and  women  were  working  in 
the  fields.  Otherwise  the  countryside  looked 
absolutely  deserted.  I  was  dumbfounded. 
I  never  said  a  word,  but  I  could  actually  feel 
my  visitor's  mind  going  round.  He  did  not 
venture  a  remark  until  we  drove  up  to  the 
gate.  Then,  as  he  helped  me  out  of  the 
cart,  he  gave  a  great  big  guffaw,  and  said 
two  words:  "You  humbug!" 

Now,  I  ask  you,  wasn't  that  cruel? 

Amelie,  who  makes  no  secret  of  her  relief 
over  the  situation  and  is  only  afraid  that  it 
may  be  temporary,  said:  "Well,  evidently 
the  ban  Dieu  said  'Look  out!  There  is  a 
New  York  man  who  has  no  business  down 
here  in  the  war  zone.  Get  everything  out 
of  sight,  quick,  so  that  he  can't  go  back  and 
talk  about  things  which  are  none  of  his 
business.'  ' 

Not  only  were  all  signs  of  war  wiped  out 
here,  but  during  the  two  days  he  remained 
the  heavy  artillery  was  silent.  Consequently 
he  had  a  quiet  visit  and  I  am  afraid  he  was 
disappointed.  I  felt  that  he  did  have  some 
just  claim  to  be  so. 

[  48   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  had  hoped  to  divert  him.  So  the  next 
day  I  took  him  across  the  Marne  to  show 
him  the  big  surgical  hospital,  and  introduce 
him  to  some  of  the  brave  women  who  have 
been  there  so  long. 

When  the  car  which  was  to  take  us  across 
the  plain  was  at  the  gate,  I  asked  which  road 
we  should  take  —  that  through  Meaux,  or 
by  Esbly  and  over  the  new  bridge  by  the  way 
of  Trilbardou.  He  replied  at  once: 

"  Oh,  by  Meaux,  of  course.  That  will  be 
more  interesting.  So  many  of  our  boys  have 
been  there." 

So  by  Meaux  we  went. 

I  had  only  hesitated  because,  although 
Meaux  is  a  sort  of  joke  to  the  French  ever 
since  the  great  success  of  "Madame  et  Son 
FilleuV1  at  the  Theatre  du  Palais  Royal, 
dating  back  to  the  days  before  it  was  ever 
bombarded,  it  is  usually  terribly  crowded. 
The  last  time  I  had  been  there  it  was  full 
of  troops  and  camions,  so  that  it  was  not  a 
pleasant  experience  to  get  across  the  town 
from  the  Marne  to  the  route  de  Senlis.  But 
on  that  day  I  found  Meaux  as  much  changed 
as  the  Hilltop.  It  was  like  a  sleeping  village 
—  streets  empty  —  most  of  the  civilians  had 
gone  during  the  spring  offensive  and  many 
had  not  returned  —  no  camions,  almost  no 
soldiers,  except  those  from  the  hospitals. 
We  slipped  through  the  silent  streets,  under 
the  railway  bridge,  out  into  the  open  coun- 

[   49   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

try.  Then  we  looked  at  one  another  and 
laughed. 

If  my  New  York  friend  had  wanted  to 
take  another  rise  out  of  me  I  should  have 
been  perfectly  willing.  My  heart  simply 
sang  within  me.  Never  since  1914  had 
Meaux  looked  like  that.  To  me  it  said 
plainly,  as  if  written  in  big  letters  on  all  the 
trees  rushing  by  us  on  either  side  of  the  road, 
that  the  retreating  battle  front  was,  so  far 
as  we  were  concerned,  definitive.  I  drew 
long  breaths  and  enjoyed  myself,  feeling  that 
we,  who  have  by  turns,  for  so  many  weary 
months,  been  "  zone  des  armees  "  or  "  arriere 
front"  were  at  last  liberated.  I  regretted 
a  little  that  I  had  nothing  exciting  to  show 
my  visitor,  but  for  myself  it  was  a  relief. 
Of  course  I  know  that  in  some  ways  much 
will  not  be  changed  for  us,  but  I  know  also 
that,  even  if  the  fighting  goes  on  until  next 
spring,  much  that  has  been  so  hard  is  done 
for  me.  I  may  have  more  nerve-trying 
things  to  stand,  but  not  the  old  things.  You 
have  often  accused  me  of  being  so  much  in- 
side the  clock  that  I  can't  tell  the  time  of 
day.  I  wonder  if  I  am  now? 

I  found  Juilly  also  much  changed  since 
my  last  visit  there,  over  a  year  ago — only 
in  a  different  way. 

During  the  tragic  days  in  May  and  June, 
when  most  of  the  hospitals  nearer  the  front 
had  to  be  evacuated,  Juilly  took  on  a  new 

[   50   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

importance.  There  the  American  Red  Cross 
accomplished  one  of  its  most  brilliant  feats. 
Juilly  had  been  a  private  enterprise,  financed 
entirely,  I  have  been  told,  by  a  well-known 
New  York  woman.  The  Red  Cross  took  it 
over  during  the  big  German  offensive,  and 
turned  a  hospital  of  some  three  hundred 
beds  into  a  fully  equipped  hospital  of  a  thou- 
sand or  more  beds,  and  practically  accom- 
plished it  —  getting  beds,  operating  room, 
material  and  personnel  into  working  order 
—  in  forty-eight  hours,  right  in  the  heat  and 
excitement  of  the  terrible  battles.  There  the 
operating  rooms  worked  day  and  night  dur- 
ing the  German  advance^  menaced  for  weeks 
with  the  possible  necessity  of  having,  in  their 
turn,  to  retire  on  Paris.  With  the  sound  of 
the  battle  in  their  ears,  with  the  ambulances 
coming  in  every  day  with  their  sad  loads  of 
wounded  and  dying,  the  guns  of  the  barrage 
barking  every  night,  and  the  Boche  avions 
whirring  over  their  heads,  these  brave  doc- 
tors and  nurses,  with  their  kits  packed  ready 
for  marching  orders,  worked  on,  expecting 
every  hour  to  have  to  evacuate. 

I  remember  that  I  wrote  to  you  long  ago 
about  Juilly,  and  how  the  college  gave  up  its 
big  dormitories  to  the  hospital,  and  how  the 
students  were  crowded  into  other  parts  of 
the  huge  buildings  of  the  old  Oratorien  mon- 
astery school,  and  slept  even  in  the  cele- 
brated Salle  des  Busies.  Of  course,  when 

[  51  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

the  attack  of  May  27  began  the  students 
and  the  children  were  at  once  removed,  and 
the  American  Red  Cross  took  over  the  whole 
place. 

Even  the  Salle  des  Busies  had  been  taken 
over  —  that  noble,  lofty,  long  room,  running 
back  into  the  beautiful  park,  with  its  long 
line  of  tall  windows,  with  dark  red  draperies 
on  either  side,  with  its  wide  steps  leading 
down  from  the  es trade  across  one  end,  its 
wide  glass  doors  at  the  other  end  giving  013, 
a  stone  terrace,  from  either  end  of  which 
leads  a  balustraded  flight  of  steps  with  a 
great  sweeping  curve  down  into  the  park, 
almost  opposite  the  statue  of  Ste.  Genevieve. 

My!  But  that  was  a  long  sentence!  So 
much  for  trying  to  get  lots  into  a  few  words. 

When  I  was  at  Juilly  last  year  this  long 
hall  was  a  school  dormitory,  with  four  lines 
of  narrow  beds,  each  with  a  red  and  white 
cover  to  harmonize  with  the  prevailing  tone 
of  the  room.  The  other  day  I  found  it 
turned  into  a  white  hospital  ward,  and  in  its 
narrow  white  beds  were  wounded  Ameri- 
cans. As  I  walked  down  it  toward  the  ter- 
race where  the  convalescents  sat  in  all  sorts 
of  long  chairs  looking  out  over  the  park,  I 
thought  how  many  Americans  in  the  future 
would  make  pious  pilgrimages  to  this  place, 
of  which,  in  the  past,  so  few  Americans  ever 
heard. 

But  the  view  over  the  park  is  even  more 

[   52   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

changed  than  any  other  part  of  the  place. 
It  is  now  sprinkled  with  long  brown  tents, 
for  there  is  a  big  military  post  there. 

The  commanding  officer  —  a  Southerner 
—  was  so  kind  as  to  walk  through  the  camp 
with  us,  so  that  we  could  see  it  all  without 
feeling  like  intruders,  and  I  am  able  to  sat- 
isfy your  curiosity  by  telling  you  exactly  how 
some  of  our  boys,  not  yet  in  the  fighting  line, 
are  living  in  France,  and  also  to  relieve  your 
mind  by  assuring  you  that  they  are  not  a  bit 
militarized  yet  —  they  still  remain  camou- 
flaged—  just  civilians  in  uniform,  doing 
their  monotonous  duties  cheerfully,  but  not 
over  much  gene  by  etiquette  —  officers  no 
more  than  men. 

For  example,  as  we  entered  each  long  tent 
such  of  the  boys  as  were  inside  sprang  to 
their  feet  and  stood  at  attention.  Each 
time  the  officer  —  he  was  young  —  actually 
blushed,  sort  of  side-stepped  (I  was  willing 
to  bet  he  was  a  dancing  man),  and  with  a 
half-embarrassed  movement  of  his  hand  said, 
"All  right,  boys.  Sit  down,"  and  down  they 
dropped.  I  was  equally  certain  they  all 
called  each  other  by  their  first  names  when 
no  one  was  listening. 

There  were  a  number  of  these  tents  placed 
end  to  end,  with  a  curtain  as  a  separation. 
Sometimes  there  was  a  slight  angle  from  the 
straight  line,  but  the  effect  to  me  was  of  a 
long  room  lengthened  by  mirrors.  We 

[  53  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

walked  along  a  wide  aisle,  and  on  either  side 
was  a  line  of  beds,  heads  to  the  sides  of  the 
tents,  —  such  a  variety  of  beds.  Here  and 
there  was  a  real  iron  bedstead,  now  and  then 
a  camp  bed;  sometimes  the  bed  was  two  tres- 
tles with  a  board  across,  again  it  would  be 
a  long,  wide,  rudely  made  box — a  bit  too 
reminiscent  of  a  broad,  lidless  coffin  —  full 
of  straw.  I  said  to  a  boy  sitting  on  one  of 
these,  "  Reckon  you  made  that  yourself?" 
He  grinned  and  replied,  "Yes,  ma'am." 
It  was  an  awfully  good-looking  crowd  of 
boys,  and  I  am  sure  that  most  of  them  had 
been  accustomed  to  spring  beds  and  hair 
mattresses.  Yet  not  one  of  them  looked  as 
if  he  minded  it  or  was  any  the  worse  for 
roughing  it.  After  all,  it  is  no  worse  than 
camping  out,  and  I  never  knew  a  worth-while 
boy  who  did  not  adore  that. 

As  I  walked  along  the  hard  soil  of  the 
aisle  between  the  beds,  I  could  not  help 
thinking  how  many  women  there  were  in  the 
States  who  would  have  loved  to  be,  at  that 
minute,  in  my  shoes.  But  I  was  being  cere- 
moniously escorted  by  the  commanding  offi- 
cer, and  I  felt  shy  about  stopping  to  chat 
with  the  lads.  I  did  not  know  what  the  eti- 
quette of  the  situation  was.  I  was  sure  that 
there  was  a  protocol.  So  I  shed  my  smiles 
all  along  the  way,  and  hoped  it  might  occur 
to  some  of  the  youngsters  that  I  was  a  sort 
of  proxy  for  home  or  mother,  —  or  even  the 

[  54  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

girl  he  left  behind  him,  —  for  youth  was  the 
predominant  note  in  the  whole  crowd.  I 
suppose  that  impressed  itself  on  me  espe- 
cially, because  today  the  French  poilu  is 
rarely  young.  The  idea  came  as  a  sort  of 
shock  that,  after  four  years  of  fighting,  the 
youth  of  France  lies  buried  on  her  battle- 
fields ;  he  has  passed  the  torch,  with  a  tragic 
forward  movement,  to  his  elders,  and  today 
it  is  the  middle-aged  who  are  carrying  the 
sacred  flame  of  the  future  and  keeping  it 
alight  until  the  children  growing  behind  them 
can  hold  it  up. 

You  would  have  loved  to  see  the  huge 
kitchens  —  under  a  big  tent  —  where  white- 
capped  soldiers  were  cooking  over  big 
ranges,  while  outside  the  door,  under  the 
trees,  one  of  them  was  stirring,  with  a  big 
wooden  spoon  almost  as  large  as  a  snow 
shovel,  in  a  cauldron  bigger  than  that  in 
which  Macbeth's  witches  made  their  magic, 
spells,  a  savory  smelling  mess —  I  presumed 
it  to  be  a  giant  Irish  stew.  I  tried  not  to 
remember  that  only  a  few  days  before  an 
American  youngster  had  said  to  me,  "  When 
I  go  back  if  the  mater  ever  dares  to  offer 
me  a  mess  of  boiled  beef  I  shall  strike." 

We  strolled  through  the  park  and  back  to 
the  hospital.  In  the  park  it  was  all  like  a 
huge  picnic.  Some  of  the  boys  were  doing 
carpenter  work.  Some  of  them  were  playing 
ball  or  tennis.  Some  were  simply  lying  on  the 

[  55  1 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

ground.  It  was  only  on  returning  to  the  hos- 
pital, where  we  met  some  boys  who  had  been 
lying  outside  for  air,  being  carried  in  on 
litters,  that  the  park  showed  any  signs  of  war. 

But  I  can't  tell  you  how  very  unmilitary 
our  boys  succeed  in  looking.  They  are  in 
uniform,  but  there  is  nothing  military  about 
them.  They  salute  in  a  half-apologetic  way 
as  if  to  say,  "  Good  Lord,  I  hope  that 's  all 
right."  There  is  no  rigidity  in  their  bearing 
or  their  gait.  I  fancy  that  little  by  little 
they'll  get  it,  and  it  is  certainly  not  surpris- 
ing that  it  takes  time,  when  you  stop  to  think 
seriously  of  what  our  army  is  made  up.  Im- 
agine being  able  to  make  a  real  soldier,  with 
the  bearing  modern  tradition  has  labelled 
"  soldierly,"  in  six  months  or  a  year  out  of 
a  boy  who  has  followed  a  plough  all  his  life 
or  bent  over  a  desk.  Is  n't  it  lucky  that  none 
of  these  things  have  any  importance  in  fight- 
ing? I  only  mention  it  because  when  some 
of  the  clever  men  now  over  here  write  char- 
acter studies  of  the  American  Army,  Ian 
Hay's  narrative  won't  be  a  patch  on  the  tales 
that  will  be  told  — •  in  dialects  from  the  down- 
east  twang  to  the  East-side  Jew  and  the  al- 
most non-English  speaking  recruit.  The  war 
farce  writer  has  his  work  all  cut  out  for  him. 

The  streets  of  Juilly  looked  to  me  as  much 
changed  as  the  hospital.  The  last  time  I  was 
here  most  of  the  convalescent  soldiers  whom 
I  met  in  the  streets  were  French.  I  saw  them 

[  56  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

on  crutches,  or  with  their  arms  in  slings  or 
their  heads  bandaged,  or  saw  them  sitting 
in  the  sun  against  the  walls.  But  this  time 
there  were  nothing  but  Americans  every- 
where. As  soon  as  we  approached  the  town 
we  began  to  meet  the  boys  in  khaki  —  Amer- 
ican ambulances,  American  automobiles, 
American  camions,  and  Americans  on  foot. 
The  whole  aspect  of  the  town  was  changed, 
and  I  imagine  it  will  be  long  before  Juilly 
recovers  her  old  look,  —  if  she  ever  does. 
The  big  hospital  has  been  there  four  years. 
It  has  cared  for  civilians  as  well  as  soldiers. 
There  is  a  free  dinique.  In  addition  the 
hospital  has  given  work  to  the  people  of  the 
town,  as  laundresses,  cooks,  cleaners  and 
gardeners.  So  here,  as  in  hundreds  of  parts 
of  the  country,  France  has  undoubtedly  had 
an  indelible  mark  put  on  her  which  will  be 
more  lasting  than  that  made  by  the  German 
guns  —  imprints  stamped  on  the  life  as  well 
as  on  the  land,  on  the  soul  as  well  as  on  the 
body,  on  the  race  as  well  as  on  its  spirit. 
Whether  this  is  for  good  or  evil  the  future 
alone  can  show.  One  thing  I  fervently  be- 
lieve to  be  possible  —  that  is,  that  the 
French,  as  a  race,  can  face  all  this  and  as- 
similate it,  and  still  be  true  to  type  better 
than  almost  any  other  people  could.  They 
have  not  been  the  banner  bearers  of  the 
advance  guard  for  so  many  centuries  for 
nothing. 

[  57  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

We  made  a  quick,  uneventful  run  back 
across  the  Marne  just  before  sunset,  and  the 
next  day  I  took  my  visitor  down  the  still  de- 
serted hill  to  the  station  at  Couilly,  and  he 
went  back  to  Paris;  and  the  joke  was  that 
the  next  day  —  presto,  change  —  and  our 
roads  were  packed  with  camions  again. 
Naturally  no  one  knows  what  it  means,  but 
there  are  all  sorts  of  rumours  afloat  regard- 
ing some  big  American  move.  I  pay  no  at- 
tention, because  I  know  that  if  there  is  any- 
thing on,  that  would  be  just  the  time  when 
we  should  know  nothing. 

On  Wednesday  we  got  the  glorious  news 
here  that  the  British  had  retaken  Mont  Kem- 
mel  and  that  a  New  York  regiment  had  been 
with  them.  I  don't  know  whether  that  is 
true  or  not,  but  by  this  time  you  do.  Yet  I 
doubt  if  the  retaking  of  that  little  hill  meant 
as  much  to  you  when  you  read  the  news  as 
it  did  to  us.  How  it  made  my  heart  jump 
back  to  those  tragic  days  of  the  last  week  in 
April,  when,  after  a  desperate  fight  about 
that  little  elevation,  the  communique  an- 
nounced that  the  Germans  had  broken 
through  —  Mont  Kemmel  was  lost  again, 
and  with  it  the  Germans  had  taken  sixty-five 
hundred  prisoners  and  hundreds  of  machine 
guns.  That  was  in  the  thirty-five  days  of 
that  terrible  spring  offensive  of  which  the 
Channel  was  the  German  objective.  The 
Allied  counter-offensive  failed.  Then,  on  the 

[   58   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

two  following  days  —  April  26th  and  27th 
—  the  communique  announced  that  "calm" 
reigned  on  that  secteur. 

"  Secteur  calme  "  is  a  great  joke  to  a  poilu. 
He  usually  gives  a  great  "  Ha-ha ! "  if  you 
use  the  words,  then  he  explains  that,  as  a 
rule,  "secteur  calme"  means  we  lost  some- 
thing we  don't  care  to  talk  about  —  yet. 

About  this  special  two  days  of  calm  there 
hangs  a  strange  story,  which  may  or  may  not 
be  true.  The  soldiers  declare  it  is.  It  can't 
do  any  harm  to  tell  it  to  you,  —  that  is,  if 
the  censor  lets  it  by.  'They  say"  that  at 
Mont  Kemmel,  on  that  fatal  April  26th,  the 
Germans  actually  had  the  Allied  armies  in 
the  north  beaten  to  a  finish,  and  that  there 
was  not  the  smallest  reason  why  they  should 
not  have  gone  right  through  to  the  Channel, 
as  England  expected  them  to  do.  No  one 
seems  to  know  why  the  Germans  stopped, 
and  during  the  two  days  announced  as 
"  calm,"  allowed  the  British  to  get  their  re- 
inforcements across,  and  hold  up  the  ad- 
vance. Some  say  the  Germans  did  not  real- 
ize the  full  extent  of  their  victory.  Some  say 
that  they  were  alarmed,  and  being  afraid  of 
going  into  an  ambushi,  stopped  to  recon- 
noitre. Some  say  they  had  to  stop  to  reor- 
ganize. Anyway,  by  a  miracle  again,  Calais 
was  saved.  So  you  can  imagine  how  we 
rejoiced  here  on  the  morning  of  the  I5th. 

To  make  the  news  more  personal  to  us 

[   59   1 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  heard  afterward  that,  but  for  the  presence 
in  England  of  a  large  number  of  our  boys 
who  are  training  there,  England  could  have 
hardly  in  April  combed  out  so  quickly  her 
army  for  Home  Defence  and  sent  such  a  big 
reinforcement  to  hold  up  the  German  push. 
England  has  always  held  a  big  home  army 
to  protect  her  coast  against  the  never-be- 
lieved-in  but  not-altogether-impossible  at- 
tempt of  the  Germans  to  make  a  landing. 
I  should  not  be  surprised  if,  at  some  future 
time,  the  British  Navy  had  a  story  to  tell  on 
this  matter  which  will  give  it  quite  a  different 
colour. 

Since  then  every  day  has  been  a  sort  of 
" journee  de  gloire"  Since  I  wrote  you  we 
have  seen  historic  Peronne  change  hands 
again,  —  Peronne  best  and  most  pictur- 
esquely known  to  most  people  in  Scott's 
"  Quentin  Durward,"  and  to  travellers  as  the 
place  of  the  captivity  of  Charles  the  Simple 
in  the  roth  Century,  and  which  long  bore 
the  reputation  of  never  having  'been  cap- 
tured. Poor  Peronne !  It  has  well  outlived 
that  fame.  Wellington  took  it  in  1815.  The 
Germans  took  it  in  January,  1870,  and  in 
this  war  it  has  suffered  terribly,  having 
changed  hands  four  times.  I  don't  suppose 
you  remember  the  long  agony  with  which 
we  watched  it  being  for  weeks  besieged  after 
the  German  retreat  of  1917,  only  to  be  lost 
again  in  March. 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Are  you  so  busy  following  our  own  boys 
that  you  do  not  realize  that  the  French  and 
British  are  well  across  the  Hindenburg  line 
in  the  north,  and  that  in  the  centre  they  are 
again  approaching  the  tragic,  desolate,  bomb- 
torn  Chemin  des  Dames? 

The  Big  Bertha  has  not  tired  for  over 
four  weeks.  We  still  speak  of  it,  but  always 
with  the  conviction  that  it  has  had  to  retreat 
so  far  that  Paris  is  out  of  its  range.  No 
Gotha  has  visited  Paris  since  June  2yth  — 
ten  weeks.  We  still  wonder  what  desperate 
attempt  the  chronic  spirit  of  wilful  destruc- 
tion may  inspire  the  Boches  to  bring  off 
before  they  give  up.  So  we  still  take  all  sorts 
of  precautions. 

I  shall  probably,  after  all,  make  one  more 
trip  to  Versailles.  I  can  live  on  the  map 
there  as  well  as  here.  Besides,  I  need  a 
change  to  keep  my  nerves  steady  in  these 
long  days  of  waiting  for  the  end. 


[  61 


IV 

Stpttmbtr  26,  1918 

HIP,  hip,  hurrah,  and  several  tigers,  and 
with  all  my  heart  I 

The  very  day  after  I  wrote  to  you  last, 
I  opened  my  morning  paper,  on  the  train,  to 
read  that  the  Americans  had  attacked  the 
St.  Mihiel  pocket,  in  liaison  with  the  French, 
from  Les  Eparges  to  Bois  le  Pretre,  and, 
twenty-four  hours  later,  at  Versailles,  we  got 
the  great  news  that  our  boys  had  taken  St. 
Mihiel  itself,  that  the  pocket  had  been  emp- 
tied, and  that  the  attacking  force  had  pene- 
trated the  German  line  on  a  front  of  twenty- 
three  miles  to  a  depth  of  fourteen  miles. 

Pictorially  and  sentimentally  that  was  one 
of  the  most  striking  events  of  the  whole  war, 
and  the  excitement  it  caused  showed  that 
every  one  felt  it  in  that  sense. 

Although  the  great  Chateau-Thierry  bat- 
tles, in  which  our  boys  played  such  a  big 
part,  and  all  the  struggles  between  the 
Marne  and  the  Vesle  were  much  more  costly 
in  lives  than  this  breaking  down  of  the  St. 
Mihiel  position,  it  had  no  such  thrilling  ef- 
fect on  the  imaginations  of  us  all  as  the 
[  62  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

taking  of  St.  Mihiel.  We  all  received  it  here 
as  though  it  were  the  first  decisive  victory 
in  the  war. 

The  cleaning  out  of  the  salient  between 
the  Marne  and  the  Vesle  was  every  bit  as 
important  as  the  taking  of  St.  Mihiel,  but  it 
was  slow.  The  fighting  of  the  French  Ter- 
ritorials and  the  Americans  at  Chateau- 
Thierry,  and  that  of  the  Americans  in  Bel- 
leau  Wood,  were  probably  marked  with 
more  acts  of  desperate  daring  and  personal 
valour,  but  nothing  has  stirred  the  public 
feeling  like  St.  Mihiel.  In  June,  at  Chateau- 
Thierry,  the  Germans  were  fighting  in  full 
preparation  for  a  third  great  offensive,  still 
absolutely  convinced  that  they  were  going 
to  get  to  Paris,  and  little  dreaming  that  it 
was  the  untried  American  army,  whose  value 
as  a  holding  as  well  as  a  fighting  power  they 
had  not  until  then  tested,  which  was  going  to 
prevent  them,  and  in  closing  that  road  for 
the  last  time  make  an  end  of  all  their  illu- 
sions of  victory. 

At  St.  Mihiel  it  was  a  different  matter. 
The  Americans  had  been  tried  and  proved. 
The  emptying  of  the  Vesle  pocket  had  been 
a  lesson. 

The  Germans  had  held  St.  Mihiel  from 
September,  1914.  It  was  a  sharp  thrust 
into  the  Allied  front  which  all  the  efforts 
of  four  years  had  not  been  able  to  break. 
There  the  German  fortified  line  crossed  the 

[   63   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Meuse  several  times.  From  behind  the  town 
the  heavy  guns  mounted  in  the  old  fort  of 
the  Camp  des  Remains  commanded  the  line 
of  the  Paris-Metz  railroad,  and  swept  the 
main  roads  with  their  long  range  artillery, 
making  transportation  very  difficult  during 
the  long  battles  at  Verdun. 

We  over  here,  who  have  been  living  on  the 
map  for  four  years,  have  had  that  sharp 
point  in  the  front  piercing  our  hearts  as  well 
as  our  eyes  all  these  long  months.  To  the 
north  and  east  the  line  had  wavered,  but 
St.  Mihiel  held,  and  so  long  as  it  did  no 
Allied  offensive  was  possible  between  the 
Argonne  and  Lorraine. 

Early  this  month  the  most  casual  student 
of  the  war  maps  could  see  that  with  the 
French  at  Les  Epargefc  and  the  Americans 
at  Pont  aux  Moussons,  St.  Mihiel  was  threat- 
ened with  encirclement,  and  that  its  fall, 
either  by  evacuation  or  by  a  tremendous 
battle,  was  inevitable.  The  result  was  half 
one,  half  the  other  —  the  Germans  made  a 
fighting  retreat,  in  which  they  got  away  a 
great  part  of  their  big  guns,  but  only  at  the 
expense  of  much  hard  fighting. 

I  have  always  told  you  that  in  this  war  we 
Americans  appear  as  a  lucky  people.  Again 
the  "  times  give  it  proof."  There  has  been 
only  one  big  battle  of  Chateau-Thierry,  and 
only  one  taking  of  St.  Mihiel,  and  both  are 
scheduled  as  "great  American  victories,"  — 

[   64  J 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

picturesque,  decisive  victories,  which  have 
impressed  the  French  civilians  as  much  as, 
if  not  more  than,  any  other  events  in  the  war, 
except  the  rising  up  of  Belgium.  The  battle 
of  Chateau-Thierry  and  the  fighting  advance 
up  the  Vesle  were  a  series  of  hard-fought 
battles,  with  tragic  ups  and  downs  —  the 
baptism  of  fire  of  many  of  the  boys  from  the 
States.  St.  Mihiel,  even  more  decisive,  was 
quick  and  sharp.  The  attack  began  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  I2th,  and  on 
the  morning  of  the  next  day  we  knew  that 
the  attacking  armies  —  French  and  Ameri- 
cans—  had  joined  hands  east  of  St.  Mihiel 
the  night  before.  Can't  you  imagine  the  mo- 
ment when  the  two  armies  sighted  each 
other?  I  have  not  seen  the  French  so  stirred 
by  anything  since  the  war  began.  No  one 
talked  of  anything  else,  especially  when  the 
afternoon  communique  announced  that  the 
Americans  were  already  at  Thiaucourt. 

Do  you  wonder  that  everybody  speaks  of 
nothing  but  "the  Americans  "  just  now?  A 
French  officer  said  to  me  on  the  train  the 
other  day:  "You  are  a  wonderful  people, 
you  Americans.  I  shall  never  forget  the  day 
when  we  were  told  at  the  front  that  the  States 
had  sent  the  message,  '  Hold  the  line.  We 
are  coming  —  ten  millions  strong!'  Why, 
you  could  see  the  poilu  stiffen  his  back,  and 
close  his  lips  firmly.  I,  myself,  instinctively 
tightened  my  belt."  So  if  only  our  boys  re- 

[   65    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

turn  the  compliment  with  the  modesty  to 
remember  all  that  had  been  done  to  prepare 
the  way  in  four  years  of  suffering  and  sacri- 
fice, why  "honours  are  easy." 

In  the  meantime  Metz  is  lying  under  the 
Allied  guns.     I  can't  imagine  its  being  bom- 
barded.    It  is  a  French  town,  coming  back 
to  the  breast  of  its  mother,  and  I  hope  not 
coming  back  too  maimed,  if  it  can  be  helped. 

Plenty  of  people  are  already  crying 
"  Peace."  Every  one  longs  for  it,  of  course 
—  but  oh!  do  pray  that  it  be  not  yet.  We 
can  only  treat  with  a  really  beaten  Germany. 
We  cannot  treat  with  a  Germany  who,  recog- 
nizing that  she  cannot  win,  is  willing  to  stop 
fighting  to  save  herself.  Before  the  order 
"cease  firing"  is  given,  we  must  be  on  the 
Rhine  with  our  guns  commanding  Germany, 
and  the  Allies  must  treat  with  a  Germany 
who  realizes,  not  only  what  the  world  thinks 
of  her,  but  that  she  will  have  to  accept  the 
victor's  terms  —  exactly  as  she  would  have 
imposed  them  had  she  won.  The  whole 
world  knows  what  she  intended  to  do  with 
the  victory  she  expected  to  win.  She  has 
made  no  secret  of  her  ambitions.  Any  mis- 
taken kindness,  any  philanthropic  considera- 
tion which  is  shown  a  predatory  race  like  the 
Germans  will  only  be  looked  on  by  her  as  a 
sign  of  weakness  or  fear. 

"  Of  course,"  I  can  hear  you  say,  "  I  know 
what  you  want."    I  expect  you  do,  and  I  have 
[  66  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

no  intention  of  denying  it.  I  want  to  see 
them  take  a  dose  of  their  own  broth  —  in- 
vasion. I  want  those  who  claim  that  the  Ger- 
mans won't  break  to  see  what  bad  losers  they 
will  be.  I  know,  of  course,  that  their  situa- 
tion is  different  from  that  of  the  Allies,  who 
have  fought  a  long  and  heroic  battle  with 
hope,  while  Germany  will  face  invasion  with 
the  game  absolutely  lost,  and  nothing  to  hope 
for  —  except  fooling  her  conquerors. 

When  I  came  back  from  Versailles  I  found 
the  tension  here  terrible.  In  spite  of  the  fact 
that  victory  is  in  sight,  and  the  news  of  every 
day  inspiring,  the  people  about'me  seemed 
more  nervous  than  I  have  ever  seen  them, 
even  when  menaced  with  invasion.  At  first 
I  could  not  understand  it.  Then  one  day  a 
woman  said  to  me:  "  Oh  God!  What  shall 
I  do  if  my  man,  who  has  been  in  a  regiment 
de  choc  ever  since  the  beginning,  should  be 
killed  at  the  very  end?  " 

I  had  not  thought  of  that,  and  it  made  me 
understand  why  so  many  faces  about  me  are 
pale,  and  why  the  tension  of  these  days  is 
worse  than  the  suspense  of  the  days  of 
uncertainty. 

All  minor  happenings  are  covered  over  by 
the  excitement  of  the  coming  victory  and  its 
possible  consequences,  and,  of  course,  in  my 
case,  by  the  knowledge  that  every  hour  is 
writing  up  in  history  the  glorious  deeds  of 
valour  that  are  to  shine  in  the  archives  of  the 

[   67   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

American  Expeditionary  Force.  With  all 
that  has  passed  and  all  that  is  to  come  can 
you  imagine  how  we  should  have  felt,  and  all 
that  it  would  have  meant  to  the  future  of  the 
race  if  the  boys  from  the  States  had  not  come 
over  seas  to  do  their  bit? 

I  feel  more  every  day,  while  I  watch  the 
old  regime  —  another  old  regime  —  going 
out,  that  there  is  an  aristocracy  of  achieve- 
ment. I  hope  that  every  one  with  real  heart 
and  true  sentiment  will  cultivate  that  idea, 
and  that  every  family  that  has  a  boy  over 
here  — whether  he  returns  to  them  or  not  — 
will  be  taught  to  believe  in  that  new-  aris- 
tocracy, and  to  cherish  and  proudly  hand 
down  to  future  generations  of  the  family  the 
memory  of  the  boy  who  fought  in  the  Great 
War,  and  that  every  city  and  every  town 
and  village  will  have,  in  the  French  fashion, 
inscribed  on  the  walls  of  one  of  its  public 
buildings,  the  list  of  its  heroes.  Ours,  at 
Quincy,  covers  one  entire  wall  of  the  room 
in  which  the  town  council  holds  its  meetings 
and  the  business  of  the  commune  is  trans- 
acted. Every  man,  woman,  or  child  who  en- 
ters that  room  to  get  a  war  allowance,  to  draw 
a  pension,  to  pay  taxes,  or  celebrate  a  civil 
marriage,  can  read  on  the  table  d'honneur  the 
name  of  the  one  of  theirs  who  has  died  for 
France  and  humanity,  —  or  been  decorated 
for  bravery,  — their  title  to  distinction  in  the 
community. 
[  68  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

One  of  the  minor  things  which  was  almost 
driven  out  of  my  mind  by  the  great  events 
at  the  front  was  an  air  raid  on  the  I5th, 
while  I  was  at  Versailles.  It  was  a  Sunday 
night.  As  I  was  getting  ready  for  bed  I  re- 
marked that  it  was  nice  and  comfortable  to 
be  able  to  lie  down  without  listening  for  the 
tir  de  barrage,  and  I  added,  "After  all,  as 
most  of  the  raids  enter  Paris  from  the  north, 
I  doubt  if  we  should  hear  the  guns  from 
here."  I  had  hardly  got  the  words  out  when 
"  bang-bang-bang "  went  the  guns,  and  for 
an  hour  I  sat  on  the  bed  listening  to  the 
familiar  sounds  in  the  northeast  instead  of 
the  west. 

I  heard,  when  coming  through  Paris  on 
my  way  home,  that  bombs  had  fallen  over  a 
wide  area  from  La  Chapelle  to  the  Passy 
entrance  to  the  Bois,  which  explained  why  we 
heard  it  so  distinctly  at  Versailles. 

I  had  to  laugh  at  your  calling  me  down  for 
my  careless  remark  in  a  July  letter  to  the 
effect  that  Germany  had  waged  a  war  more 
brutal  than  so-called  barbarous  times  had 
ever  seen.  I  take  due  and  admiring  note 
of  the  fact  that  you  are  reading  "  The 
Makers  of  History."  All  the  same —  I  per- 
sist in  the  statement.  In  fact  and  in  intention 
I  believe  exactly  what  I  said.  "  Other  days 
—  other  manners."  What  was  merely  bar- 
barous in  the  old  days  becomes  simply  mon- 
strous now,  when  everything  man  has  learned 

[  69  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

and  all  he  had  achieved  has  simply  been 
made  to  serve  destruction.  Yes,  I  know  all 
about  the  destruction  of  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  Moors.  I  have  read  about  the  sack 
of  Lille,  the  sack  of  Rome  and  several  hun- 
dred other  sacks.  I  know  about  long-ago 
Bulgarian  atrocities,  —  and  I  could  make  a 
list  several  feet  long.  But  if  I  were  to  let 
those  facts  stagger  me  I  should  have  to  re- 
call the  religious  cruelties  of  our  forefathers 
on  Boston  Common,  and  little  things  of  that 
sort,  which  we  don't  do  now  any  more  than 
we  carry  off  Sabine  women.  Oh,  no!  In  a 
world  that  claimed  to  be  rising  "  on  stepping 
stones  of  its  dead  self  to  better  things"  — 
pardon  the  paraphrase  —  it  is  beyond  words 
abominable  for  any  people  to  have  waged  a 
war  with  the  avowed  purpose  of  wiping  out 
races  to  make  room  for  the  victor's  expan- 
sion, and  with  such  acknowledged  contempt 
for  the  sacredness  of  life  and  liberty  as  to 
permit  the  war  theory  that  the  quicker  women 
and  children  were  killed  the  sooner  it  would 
be  over,  and  the  sooner  the  victor  could  en- 
joy the  spoils.  I  never  pretended  that  in 
fundamental  passions  the  world  has  much 
changed,  but  its  manners  have,  and  —  well, 
Germany  is  out  of  fashion  and  ill-bred  and 
criminal.  In  fact  she  is  indecent.  One  does 
not  associate  by  choice  with  indecency.  We 
may  see  other  wars  —  we  probably  shall  — 
or  other  epochs  will  if  ours  does  not — but 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

war  is  hardly  likely  to  shock  the  world 
again  as  this  one  has.  It  has  destroyed  so 
many  hopes,  torn  to  pieces  so  many  illusions ! 
Next  time  we  shall  know  what  to  expect. 
None  of  us  any  longer  blinds  ourself  to  the 
truth  that  it  is  going  to  be  pretty  difficult  to 
prevent  war.  Living  is  a  struggle.  Even 
family  life  is  not  free  from  it.  In  commer- 
cial life,  if  it  is  not  often  bloody  it  is  terribly 
cruel.  So  long  as  nations  are  ambitious  — 
and  when  they  are  neither  ambitious  nor 
proud  apathetic  chaos  will  come — aggression 
cannot  be  prevented  unless  peace-loving  na- 
tions are  willing  to  sit  still  and  let  races  like 
the  Huns  ride  over  them,  and  "  turn  the 
other  cheek."  I  cannot  conceive  that  noble 
theories  can  do  anything  but  bind  us  up  to 
wage  the  same  sort  of  holy  war  we  are  finish- 
ing. They  surely  cannot  prevent  war  so  long 
as  it  is  the  finest  virtue  of  the  noblest  men  and 
women  to  feel  that  it  is  well  worth  while  to 
resist  evil,  even  if  the  price  of  resistance  be 
death. 

Prisons  and  capital  punishment  have  never 
prevented  crime,  but  they  have  punished  it. 
That  is  what  the  Allies  have  to  do  to  Ger- 
many, and  it  must  be  a  punishment  she  can't 
forget.  Fear  of  death  has  never  made  a 
righteous  man  false  to  his  ideals.  I  doubt  if 
fear  of  war  will  ever  make  a  nation  worthy 
to  survive  when  false  to  its  principles. 

I  consider  the  United  States  of  America  in 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

this  war  a  living  proof  of  that.  When  Wil- 
son was  elected  to  his  second  term  on  the 
slogan  "  He  kept  us  out  of  the  war,"  and  a 
month  and  three  days  after  his  inauguration 
was  obliged  by  public  opinion  to  declare  the 
very  war  he  had  tried  to  avoid,  you  wrote 
me  that  "  like  the  great  statesman  he  was  he 
had  waited  until  he  had  the  country  behind 
him."  I  did  not  reply,  as  I  might  have,  that, 
in  the  words  of  a  very  great  American,  the 
only  men  he  had  kept  out  of  the  war  were 
Theodore  Roosevelt  (God  bless  him!)  and 
Leonard  Wood,  nor  did  I  trouble  to  speak 
my  mind  then  —  you  were  so  dead  in  earnest 
—  and  say  that  I  thought  that  you  wronged 
your  country,  and  that  whoever  had  raised 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  when  Belgium  was  in- 
vaded or  when  the  Lusitania  was  sunk  would 
have  seen  the  nation  flock  as  solidly  under  it 
as  they  did  in  April,  1917  —  for  you  know, 
my  dear  girl,  they  were  not  absolutely  solid 
when  called.  I  am  afraid  that  I  think  better 
of  my  countrymen  than  you  do.  Unluckily, 
our  outlook  is  terribly  narrow.  Standing 
each  on  his  little  apex,  we  watch  a  limited 
horizon.  We  see  the  petty  faults  of  the 
people  near  to  us.  We  see  the  trying 
meannesses  of  politics.  Our  families  are  not 
always  noble.  Our  governments  are  not  in- 
corruptible. In  these  days  of  free  speech 
our  friends  tear  bandages  off  our  eyes,  and 
the  public  press  does  not  encourage  rose- 

[  7*  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

coloured  spectacles,  and  we  are  so  near  that 
our  visions  rarely  see  over  the  little  things 
right  under  our  feet,  and  it  took  just  the 
climax  of  these  years  to  show  what  the  world 
was,  and  especially  of  what  stuff  the  States 
were  made.  The  big  general  average  has 
been  absolutely  splendid,  and  though  we 
bring  charges  against  our  organization, 
though  we  cry  "  inefficiency  "  and  "  blunders  " 
from  now  to  the  crack  of  doom,  nothing  will 
change  the  fact  that  the  PEOPLE  —  both  those 
who  fought  and  those  who  obediently  de- 
prived themselves  that  the  world  might  at 
least  try  to  live  —  have  done  their  part  and 
done  it  magnificently.  War  is  not  all  tragic, 
any  more  than  dying  is,  and  without  this  war 
the  States  would  never  have  known  them- 
selves, nor  without  it  could  they  ever  have 
been  welded  into  the  great  world  power  they 
are  yet  to  be.  Let  us  pray  for  a  little  racial 
modesty  to  give  us  poise,  and  to  help  us  real- 
ize that  we  no  longer  need  to  assert  our- 
selves, that 's  all. 

Now  there  's  my  final  word.    Nail  it  up. 

We  have  been  thrown  back  a  long  way  in 
this  war.  We  have  been  forced  to  take  up 
the  tools  of  evil  to  combat  evil.  Isn't  it  a 
pity  that  we  can't  throw  back  still  farther  to 
single  combat,  and  God  with  the  right?  It 
would  be  quite  chic  also  if  we  could  have  a 
well-kept  international  battle-field  on  which 
alone  international  disputes  could  be  settled. 

[  73  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Yet  where  would  be  the  use  so  long  as  there 
are  people  like  the  Germans,  bound  by  no 
treaties,  with  no  idea  of  honor,  who  would 
simply  come  and  slaughter  all  of  us  civilians 
while  our  noble  armies  were  occupied  in  try- 
ing it  out  a  long  way  off?  Besides,  with  the 
world  so  populated,  where  could  you  find 
a  proper  battle-field,  since  civilization — so- 
called —  has  crossed  the  last  frontier?  Half 
a  century  ago  one  might  have  said  Sahara. 
But  Hichens  made  Sahara  fashionable,  and 
the  French,  who  own  so  much  of  it,  are  going 
to  turn  it  into  one  of  the  gardens  of  the  world 
in  a  century  or  less. 

In  spite  of  all  these  exciting  and  perplex- 
ing thoughts  I  keep  right  on  feeling  that  the 
sum  of  it  all  is  —  beauty.  It  took  the  very 
baseness  of  Germany  to  throw  into  relief, 
with  a  blazing  halo  around  it,  the  courage, 
the  willing  self-sacrifice,  the  spirit  of  heroism 
of  the  races  that  have  made  of  their  living 
bodies  a  buckler  at  the  cross-roads  to  save  the 
soul  of  the  world.  "  Fight  for  your  altars 
and  your  hearths  "  is  just  as  good  a  battle 
cry  as  it  ever  was,  though  it  lives  only  as  a 
symbol.  We  can't,  even  in  these  realistic 
days,  cry  "  Fight  for  your  pulpits  and  your 
central  heat"  without  laughing  at  ourselves, 
but  we  do  it  just  the  same,  and  I  imagine  we 
always  will.  The  idea  is  immortal  —  that 
does  not  go  out  of  fashion,  docs  it? 

My !  What  a  long  garrulous  letter  this  is 

[  74  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

getting  to  be!  Poor  you  —  who  can't  "  sass 
back"  for  a  whole  month! 

One  more  thing  —  just  to  change  the  sub- 
ject and  clear  the  air.  It's  about  Versailles, 
and  I  have  meant  to  tell  you  about  it  every 
time  I  have  come  back  from  there,  and  then 
I  go  and  get  myself  all  stirred  up  with  theo- 
ries, and  forget.  I  must  do  it  now,  as  I  have 
probably  seen  Versailles  for  the  last  time  in 
its  war  array,  and  you  will  never  see  it  under 
that  aspect. 

I  have  already  told  you  that  the  air  raids 
have  reached  as  far  as  there,  but  I  am  sure 
that  I  never  told  you  that  the  town  is  full  of 
abris  in  which  the  population  took  refuge 
whenever  an  alerte  announced  the  approach 
of  the  invader  of  the  air,  and  that  the  entire 
park  and  gardens  are  camouflaged.  The 
most  precious  of  the  sculptured  vases,  the 
most  valuable  of  the  statuary,  and  all  the 
most  famous  bronzes  in  the  fountains  have 
.been  most  carefully  covered,  not  only  to  con- 
ceal them,  but  to  protect  them  if  possible. 
Looking  down  on  the  tapis  vert  side  of  the 
palace  the  park  looks  something  like  a  huge 
Hottentot  village  of  straw  huts. 

You  might  think  the  effect  would  be  ugly 
and  disfiguring.  It  is  not,  although  it  is  amus- 
ingly droll.  You  know  the  French  could  not 
do  a  thing  like  that  without  giving  it  an  ar- 
tistic pat  which  would  lend  it  a  certain  charm. 
Some  of  the  big  central  bronze  groups  to  the 

[  75  1 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

large  fountains  have  a  flat,  roof-like  plat- 
form built  over  them,  on  which  logs  are 
evenly  piled  as  one  makes  a  wood-pile  to  dry, 
and  on  top  of  that  is  a  loose  layer  of  faggots. 
The  vases  and  small  statuary  have  been  cov- 
ered in  with  cone-shaped  wrappers  of  straw 
and  faggots,  tied  in  a  knot  at  the  top,  and 
resembling  the  straw  protector  of  a  precious 
bottle  of  wine.  You  might  think  it  looked 
more  like  the  head  of  a  huge  child  with  her 
hair  tied  on  top  of  her  head,  preparatory  to 
bath-time.  Some  of  the  groups  are  packed 
with  earth  and  boxed  in  with  an  outer  layer 
of  faggots,  over  which  a  bath  of  plaster  has 
been  poured,  giving  the  impression  of  elabo- 
rately cut  stone.  Time  and  the  weather  have 
toned  down  all  this,  and  the  wind  has  brought 
seeds  from  everywhere,  and  the  coverings  of 
the  big  fountains  are  aglow  with  flowering 
things  —  blue  and  yellow,  pink  and  white  — 
while  soft  trailing  vines  droop  over  the  edge 
and  wave  in  the  breezes.  I  don't  know  how 
it  would  look  to  anyone  who  has  not  known 
it  in  all  its  usual  bravery,  but  to  me  it  was 
just  a  new  aspect,  and  still  pretty —  if  not 
beautiful. 


October  6,  1918,  By  the  light  of  candles 

WELL,  I'd  give  a  penny  if  you  could  see 
me.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  thrown  back  to  the 
days  of  my  grand-dad.  I  am  sitting  up  in 
the  attic,  with  its  sloping  roof,  two  rough  old 
beams,  —  worm-eaten,  unpainted,  seamed, — 
and  cement  floor.  It  makes  me  think  of  the 
unfinished  attic  in  the  old  farmhouse  at  New 
Sharon,  only  there  are  no  dried  herbs  hang- 
ing from  the  beams,  there  is  no  hand-loom  at 
one  end,  and  no  big  spinning-wheel.  I  am 
writing  by  the  light  of  six  candles  arranged 
in  a  semi-circle  about  my  typewriter,  trying 
to  consider  that  it  is  a  sufficient  illumination. 
Anyway,  it  is  all  we  have.  We  never  had 
gas  or  electricity,  and  our  allowance  of  kero- 
sene is  a  pint  a  month,  —  and  often  we  don't 
get  that.  Needless  to  say  a  pint  of  kerosene 
is  hardly  sufficient  to  light  me  for  one  even- 
ing. So  a  few  weeks  ago  I  laid  in  a  huge 
stock  of  candles,  for  to  live  in  the  dark  in  the 
evening  would  be  the  worst  misery  the  war 
could  bring  me.  When  my  friends  who  are 
working  out  in  the  devastated  regions,  or 
who  go  "  out  there  "  to  carry  relief,  tell  me 

[  77  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

that  the  most  terrible  thing  they  encounter  is 
the  darkness,  in  which  one  crawls  round  in 
the  little  ruined  villages  where  there  are  ab- 
solutely no  lights  and  nothing  to  make  them 
with,  and  where  they  stumble  over  broken 
roads  with  a  pocket  lamp  —  which  may  give 
out  at  any  time —  it  represents  to  me  the  very 
acme  of  suffering.  I  can  go  hungry,  but  to 
be  cold  in  the  dark  is  to  me  the  last  cry  of 
deprivation. 

Even  candles  are  not  to  be  had  here,  and 
I  got  my  big  stock  from  an  English  firm  at 
the  noble  price  of  eight  cents  apiece.  So  you 
can  calculate  what  it  costs  me  to  write  you 
this  letter,  with  my  circle  of  candles  at  graded 
heights,  endeavouring  to  get  enough  light  and 
avoid  cross  shadows.  I  am  doing  this  be- 
cause I  have  been  terribly  busy,  and  the  days 
are  short,  and  I  could  not  get  time  to  write 
by  daylight. 

As  near  as  I  can  remember,  I  wrote  you 
late  last  month  —  the  25th.  The  day  after 
it  turned  cold,  and  I  lighted  up  my  salon 
chimney —  fully  three  weeks  earlier  than 
usual.  It  hurt  me  to  do  it.  But  the  grippe 
is  with  us,  and  I  could  not  afford  to  take  any 
risks. 

That  was  the  very  day  that  news  came  that 
Bulgaria  was  ready  to  lay  down  her  arms, 
although  the  actual  armistice  was  not  signed 
until  three  days  later.  While  we  all  realized 
that  this  was  the  first  scene  in  the  last  act, 

C  78   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

there  was  absolutely  no  excitement  here.  The 
only  thing  that  disturbs  me  is  the  fear  that 
Germany  is  to  be  allowed  to  talk.  She  has 
been  trying  to  for  two  years  and  more.  It 
would  be  a  pity  if  she  were  allowed  the  op- 
portunity now. 

A  Frenchman  said  the  other  day:  "Wait 
and  see  if  Germany  does  not  claim  that,  hav- 
ing offered  to  stop  fighting  and  make  a  com- 
promise treaty  in  December,  1916,  she  is 
today  an  innocent  victim  of  the  pride  of  the 
Allies." 

On  Thursday  morning — day  before  yes- 
terday—  we  read  Wilson's  reply  to  the  Ger- 
man demand  for  the  terms  of  an  armistice. 
Although  every  one  here  had  felt  puzzled 
and  indignant  that  Germany  should  have 
dared  to  appeal  over  the  head  of  Foch  and 
his  fighting  armies  to  the  chief  executive  of 
the  last  Ally  to  enter  the  combat,  still  Wil- 
son's reply  sounds  all  right.  We  would  have 
liked  the  short  and  sharp  two  words,  "  Un- 
conditional Surrender,"  but  after  all  the  reply 
they  have  received  is  to  the  point,  isn't  it? 
No  talk,  even,  with  the  Germans  while  their 
armies  are  on  invaded  territory.  If  the  letter 
of  that  is  adhered  to,  and  there  is  no  further 
talk  of  an  armistice  until  the  Boches  are  in- 
side their  own  frontiers,  and  the  Allied  guns 
are  pointed  across  the  Rhine,  no  one  will 
have  any  complaint  to  make.  But  they  must 
be  thrashed  to  a  finish. 

[  79  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOMI 

You  have  accused  me  several  times  lately 
of  seeming  to  wish  to  ruin  the  German  nation 
as  well  as  to  overthrow  its  government.  Well, 
we  have  only  one  choice  —  if  Germany  is  not 
ruined  France  will  be.  Which  do  you  really 
prefer? 

Alas!  That  ruin  may  do  Germany  more 
good  in  the  end  than  escaping  may  do  France. 
It  is  often  a  great  deal  easier  to  bear  misfor- 
tune—  it  was  for  France  in  1870  —  than  to 
keep  the  muscles  from  getting  soft  and  the 
soul  selfish  in  the  days  after  a  great  victory. 
Luckily,  in  this  case  everything  is  compara- 
tive, and  no  nation  is  coming  out  prosperous. 
Each  nation  has  to  suffer,  but  Germany's  suf- 
fering ought  to  be  exactly  what  she,  who 
brought  this  disaster  on  the  whole  world, — 
her  allies  as  well  as  her  enemies, — has 
earned.  I  can  see  no  place  for  two  opinions 
about  that. 

I  can  hear  you  asking  what  it  is  which  has 
kept  me  so  busy  that,  in  order  to  get  time  to 
write  to  you,  I  have  to  try  my  eyes  by  candle- 
light. First,  as  I  told  you,  we  have  had  the 
grippe  here,  and  the  epidemic  is  still  spread- 
ing. I  really  wonder,  all  things  considered, 
that  we  have  not  had  worse  epidemics  than 
the  grippe,  — with  so  mznyrefugies,  so  badly 
housed  in  empty  granges,  with  only  straw  for 
bedding,  so  poorly  clad  that  many  of  them 
for  weeks  did  not  undress  because  they  had 
only  what  covered  them  when  they  got  here, 
[  80  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

and  so  inadequately  fed  because  we  had  little 
to  share  with  them,  except  potatoes  and 
beans.  Milk  is  almost  nonexistent.  We  have 
half  a  pound  of  sugar  each  month,  no  butter, 
almost  no  coffee,  no  cereals  of  any  sort,  no 
fruit,  no  chocolate,  and  meat  is  so  expensive 
that  I  wonder  anyone  can  afford  it.  Olive  oil 
can  only  be  had  in  small  quantities  at  an 
exorbitant  price,  and  fuel  is  so  scarce  that 
they  are  cutting  down  more  of  the  trees  on 
the  canals.  As  for  clothing,  why,  we  all  gave 
away  all  we  could  spare  ages  ago,  during  the 
first  evacuations,  and  everything  in  the  way 
of  shoes — so  necessary  —  is  so  expensive. 
The  wooden-soled  galoches  which  the  chil- 
dren used  to  wear  to  school,  and  which,  be- 
fore the  war,  used  to  cost  fifty  cents  a  pair, 
now  cost  one  dollar  and  eighty  cents,  and  a 
pair  of  ordinary  shoes,  which  used  to  cost  two 
dollars  now  cost  four.  As  for  the  shoes  I 
used  to  buy  in  Paris  for  five  dollars,  they  now 
cost  seventeen  and  eighteen,  and  are  not 
nearly  so  good  in  quality. 

In  this  situation,  in  August,  I  suddenly 
found  myself  —  through  no  especial  effort  of 
mine,  unless  having  talked  about  the  Hilltop 
be  an  effort — more  useful  than  I  had  ever 
been  in  my  long  life.  Suddenly  the  outreach- 
ing  thoughts  of  the  many  Americans,  who 
have  means  and  cannot  be  here,  and  who, 
from  the  beginning,  had  now  and  then 
touched  me,  stretched  generously  filled  hands 

[  81   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

over  the  Hilltop  to  drop  on  these  little  ham- 
lets the  plenty  that  has  turned  the  course 
of  what  otherwise  would  have  been  dire 
tragedy. 

It  is  small  wonder  that  the  very  word 
"  American  "  has  a  sort  of  hypnotic  effect  on 
the  French.  Unless  you  have  been  actually 
inside  the  relief  work  on  your  end  of  the 
line,  I  doubt  if  I  can  give  you  any  conception 
of  what  is  going  on  here,  for  it  is  not  only 
the  far-reaching  work  of  the  American  Red 
Cross,  it  is  also  work,  quiet  and  unseen,  done 
by  private  individuals,  and  you  can  have  no 
idea,  unless  you  have  seen  it,  how  quickly  and 
generously  they  respond  to  any  call,  and  in 
my  case,  and  in  many  others,  how  often  they 
act  without  being  called.  I  have  written  to 
you  about  my  New  York  friend,  Mrs.  Griggs. 
Well,  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  war, 
through  her,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Millbank  An- 
derson came  to  the  aid  of  our  little  hospital 
at  Quincy,  and  provided  our  soldiers  here 
with  every  sort  of  comfort,  from  the  food 
that  helped  their  convalescence  to  the  air- 
cushions  which  made  them  comfortable  in 
bed,  and  the  warm  flannels  and  sweaters  and 
stockings  which  sent  them  back  to  the  front 
with  well-filled  kits.  Right  on  the  heels  of 
that  gift,  while  every  one  in  the  hospital  was 
blessing  their  unknown  friend,  Mrs.  Ander- 
son, one  chilly  winter  night,  just  after  dark, 
a  little  camion  with  "  CEuvre  pour  les  Blesses 
[  82  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Franqais  "  painted  on  it,  came  up  the  hill, 
and  brought  to  our  sick  poilus  candies  and 
socks  and  surprise  bags  from  the  young 
people  in  the  States,  and  oh,  so  many  times 
after  that  our  boys  were  cheered  by  gifts 
from  the  same  CEuvre,  including  the  phono- 
graph, which  was  their  joy  and  delight  as 
long  as  the  hospital  was  open,  and  after  that 
amused  the  soldiers  who  were  cantoned  here. 
Why,  it  was  even  played  an  entire  afternoon 
in  September  by  some  of  the  Marines, 
fresh  from  Chateau-Thierry  and  the  Belleau 
Wood. 

Since  those  days  there  has  never  been  a 
time  when  some  American  relief  organiza- 
tion has  not  seemed  to  have  us  in  mind,  and 
it  has  been  cumulative  work,  growing  in  gen- 
erosity as  the  passing  years  made  the  necessity 
more  pressing.  Mrs.  Anderson  sent  up  car- 
loads of  shoes  —  beautiful  American  shoes  — 
stockings,  clothing,  blankets,  and  all  sorts  of 
food  —  the  sort  of  food  that  even  those  with 
money  cannot  buy  here  today,  and  I  am 
sure  that  I  have  made  you  understand  enough 
of  the  situation  to  guess  what  it  means  to 
have  condensed  milk  and  rice  and  macaroni 
for  the  children,  who  are  being  largely  nour- 
ished on  potatoes.  I  wonder  if,  without  ever 
having  lived  under  war  conditions,  you  can 
understand  what  it  means  to  get  such  gifts 
in  a  commune  where  even  those  who  have 
the  means  and  the  will  to  soften  the  condition 

[    83    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

of  the  poor  and  the  sick  cannot  do  it,  and 
where  little  babies  cannot  be  properly  fed 
because  what  they  most  need  does  not  exist. 
Can  you  take  that  in?  Unless  you  really  can, 
you  have  no  realization  of  the  sort  of  work 
the  American  women,  by  the  sacrifice  of 
themselves,  or  their  generosity  with  their 
money,  did  over  here,  long  before  our  boys 
came  across  with  guns  on  their  shoulders  — 
and  are  still  doing. 

The  world  had  been  so  generous  to  us  long 
before  the  tragic  evacuations  of  last  spring, 
and  before  the  necessities  in  the  absolutely 
devastated  regions  had  become  so  impera- 
tive, that  when,  owing  to  those  new  evacua- 
tions, our  needs  became  pressing  again,  and 
babies  began  to  be  born  amongst  our  refu- 
giees  for  whom  there  were  no  baby  clothes, 
I  was  rather  put  to  it.  However,  I  went  up 
to  Paris  and  smiled  out  my  story,  and  came 
back  laden  with  layettes.  That  relieved  the 
immediate  necessity,  but  the  re-opening  of 
school  was  looming  before  us,  and  French 
children  cannot  go  to  school  without  shoes 
and  clean  black  aprons,  and  then  winter  was 
coming.  The  summer  had  not  been  so  bad. 
It  had  been  warm.  The  youngsters  had  not 
needed  much  clothing.  They  had  run  around 
bare-footed,  bare-legged,  in  one  garment. 
But  before  winter  something  had  to  be  done. 

In  that  dilemma  a  miracle  happened. 

Unexpectedly  —  out  of  a  clear  sky  —  there 

[   84   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

fell  on  my  desk  one  morning  a  slip  from  the 
Red  Cross  saying  that  they  had  received  or- 
ders to  send  me  thousands  of  yards  of  mate- 
rial— cotton  cloth,  flannel  for  underclothing, 
cotton  flannel,  stuffs  for  dresses,  black  satin- 
ette  for  children's  aprons  —  and  that  all  this 
had  already  left  Paris. 

The  announcement  shook  me  right  to  the 
tips  of  my  toes.  I  simply  can't  tell  you  how 
I  felt.  I  could  have  taken  the  "little  old 
United  States  "  right  up  in  my  two  arms  and 
hugged  it.  I  made  a  bee-line  for  the  mayor's 
to  tell  his  wife  the  good  news.  It  was  the 
only  time  I  ever  minded  Ninette's  lack  of 
speed. 

Do  you  know  I  have  never  found  out  who 
inspired  the  deed?  When  I  asked  to  whom 
I  was  to  send  my  thanks  I  was  told  that  if 
I  wanted  to  thank  anyone  I  might  thank  the 
man  at  the  head  of  the  civil  work  for  the  Red 
Cross  —  which  I  did.  But  wasn't  that  a 
wonderful  adventure? 

So  that  is  why  I  am  busy.  For  days  neither 
Ninette  nor  I  have  had  time  to  do  anything 
except  go  up  and  down  the  hill  carrying  mate- 
rials as  they  are  needed,  and  this  attic  where 
I  am  working  looked,  and  still  looks,  like  a 
warehouse. 

Our  mayor's  wife  is  a  great  organizer. 
The  women  of  the  commune  who  have  any 
spare  time  are  always  ready  to  cut  and  sew. 
The  local  branch  of  the  French  Red  Cross  has 

[   85   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

a  little  money  to  pay  women  who  could  not 
afford  to  give  their  time,  and  all  the  young 
girls,  under  the  direction  of  the  Cure's  house- 
keeper, who  has  charge  of  the  patronage  con- 
nected with  the  Catholic  Church,  did  their 
part,  and  we  sent  all  our  children  —  the  war 
orphans,  the  refugies,  the  children  of  the  men 
at  the  front,  and  all  the  very  poor  of  both 
communes  —  to  school  the  first  of  the  month, 
clean,  comfortably  dressed  and  shod. 

We  are  still  busy  getting  ready  for  winter. 
Ninette  and  I  still  go  up  and  down  the  hill, 
sometimes  twice  a  day,  and  I  think,  as  I  sit 
in  my  little  cart,  that  I  wish  I  had  some  way 
of  sending  telepathic  messages  which  could 
give  American  women  like  Mrs.  Anderson  a 
vision  of  the  good  they  are  doing. 

In  the  mean  time,  for  a  modest  person  my 
position  is  a  bit  trying.  I  am  the  visible  dis- 
penser of  this  generosity  —  humble,  but  on 
the  spot,  and  on  the  job.  I  explain  often.  I 
make  the  names  of  their  American  friends 
familiar  to  them.  Every  little  while  I  make 
some  one  write  a  letter.  But  it  is  I  who 
get  their  pretty  smiles  and  hear  their  dear 
"  Merci,  Mademoiselle." 

Do  you  wonder  that  I  feel  that  the  sum  of 
it  is  beauty? 

Surely,  remarkable  as  may  be  the  results 
of  this  war  on  our  boys  who  are  unselfishly 
offering  their  lives  for  the  welfare  of  the 
future,  —  in  which  many  of  them  will  per- 

r  86 1 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

haps  have  a  better  part  than  falls  to  those 
who  are  to  continue  the  race,  since  it  is 
they  who  are  holding  up  the  oriflamme 
to  point  the  way  to  the  future,  —  they  will 
be  equally  so  on  many  of  the  women  over 
here  on  more  or  less  active  service,  and 
who  have  found  their  work  in  unexpected 
places. 

I  wonder  if  you  remember  in  those  old  far- 
off  days  —  everything  before  the  war  seems 
ancient  history  now  —  going  with  me  to  see 
the  Stein  private  gallery,  which  used  to  be,  in 
those  days,  the  rendezvous  for  many  people 
of  all  nations  who  were  interested  in  Matisse 
and  Picasso  and  how  many  others  of  the 
revolutionary  school  of  art  to  which  they 
belonged?  Those  were  the  days  when  Ger- 
trude Stein  was  beginning  to  be  talked  about 
as  a  possible  pioneer  in  a  post-impressionistic 
school  of  literature,  and  was  a  red  rag  to 
many  even  who  did  not  consider  themselves 
de  I' Academic. 

I  am  sure  that  you  must  remember  her. 
No  one  who  ever  met  her  would  be  likely  to 
forget  her.  But  would  you  have  ever 
dreamed  that  she  would  develop  into  a 
crackerjack  camion  driver?  Of  course  you 
would  not.  Well,  she  did,  and  for  three 
years  now  has  been  driving  her  Ford  camion- 
ette,  crossing  the  hills  in  a  snowstorm  to 
carry  aid  to  the  hospitals  in  the  Pyrenees,  or 
driving  up  and  down  the  hills  in  the  Card, 

[   87.] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

carrying  the  sick  and  wounded,  carrying  re- 
lief supplies  —  and  driving  like  an  expert. 

Does  n't  it  seem  a  far  cry  to  those  old  days 
when  one  used  to  meet  at  her  studio,  on  Sat- 
urday nights  when  it  was  opened  to  all 
comers,  the  leading  insurrectionists  of  all  the 
arts,  with  here  and  there  an  American  mil- 
lionaire trying  to  look  at  ease ;  and  now  and 
then  a  group  of  American  beauties  feeling 
that  they  simply  had  to  be  "  in  it  " ;  often  the 
leaders  of  the  opposition,  very  much  on  their 
good  behaviour;  or  the  common-or-garden 
variety  of  traveller  feeling  that  he  had  to 
take  it  in  (it  would  make  such  good  dinner 
conversation  in  New  York,  and  make  him 
seem  so  knowing)  ;  and  always  American 
journalists,  and  journalists  from  everywhere 
else,  looking  wise  or  disconcerted  or  scornful, 
according  to  their  gifts;  and  seated  round  the 
hostess  at  the  long  refectory  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  studio  —  while  the  casual  visi- 
tors roamed  round  the  room — there  was 
always  her  special  group  of  intimates  or  those 
who  had  brought  letters  of  introduction. 
Perhaps  you  met  there  that  evening  —  I  don't 
remember  —  James  Stephens,  the  Irish  poet, 
with  his  Byronic  head,  perhaps  looking  imp- 
ish, but  sure  to  be  brilliantly  aggressive  — 
and  oh!  so  human  and  Irish;  or  it  may  have 
been  Myra  Edgerly,  the  altruistic  enthusiast 
in  search  of  a  great  mission,  and  incidentally, 
en  route,  painting  miniatures  of  titled  people 
[  88  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

all  over  the  world;  or  it  may  have  been  — 
but  where  's  the  good  of  naming  them  to  you  ? 
But  oh !  my  mind  goes  back  in  these  days, 
when  we  were  feeling  so  near  to  the  end,  to 
all  the  interests  that  the  war  has  absolutely 
wiped  out,  to  wonder  if  they  are  dead,  or 
only  sleeping,  and  in  what  form  the  future 
is  to  see  them  resurrected,  —  in  fact,  what 
sort  of  a  world  it  is  going  to  be  when 

"Johnny  comes  marching  home." 

Johnny  and  his  family  tangoed,  and  fox- 
trotted, and  turkey-trotted,  and  gambled,  and 
strutted,  each  after  his  own  self-centred  in- 
terests, or  tried,  in  his  undisciplined  way,  to 
"get  on,"  or  was  leisurely  happy  according 
to  his  class,  until  the  flag  was  unfurled,  and 
all  Americans,  equal  in  service  under  the 
colours,  became  brothers  of  one  family.  I 
am  wondering,  sitting  up  in  my  attic  by 
candlelight — and,  by  the  way,  the  candles 
are  burning  down  —  if  Johnny,  who  is  the 
son  of  the  nation,  in  his  uniform  under  the 
flag  for  which  he  is  ready  to  die,  will  be  — 
if  he  lives  —  still  the  beloved  son  of  the  na- 
tion when  he  strips  that  uniform  off?  He 
has  been,  and  still  is,  pampered  over  here, 
where  his  uniform  is  his  guarantee  and  no 
one  asks  his  social  status.  What  is  he  going 
back  to? 

Who  knows? 

Will  he  tango  and  loaf  and  once  more 
think  only  of  himself?  I  doubt  it.  Even  if, 

[   89   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

in  the  first  joy  of  his  discharge  and  of  his 
getting  that  uniform  off  —  it  is  so  unbecom- 
ing —  he  may  for  a  moment  seem  unchanged ; 
if  for  a  brief  space  he  longs  to  roll  like  a  dog 
just  unchained,  and  to  rush  about  madly  in 
pure  delight  of  liberty,  I  have  a  conviction 
that  he  will  carry  home  with  him  something 
beside  the  kit  he  brought  "  over-seas,"  and 
I  believe  that  these  boys  who,  in  the  next 
decade,  are  to  rule  the  country  will  soon  be 
heard  from  and  felt.  It  will  take  a  bit  of 
time  for  him  to  shake  down,  but  if, 

"When    Johnny    comes    marching    home 

again" 

he  does  not  carry  with  him  the  soul  he  has 
found,  in  so  many  cases,  over  here,  it  will  be 
so  much  the  worse  for  all  the  world  and  fatal 
for  the  States. 

I  have  a  lot  of  things  to  say  about  that  — 
they  must  wait  —  this  is  a  long  letter  and  the 
candles  are  burning  out. 

In  looking  this  over  —  must  hurry  —  only 
two  lights  left — I  find  thafr  there  is  some- 
thing I  must  say  for  fear  that  you  get  a  wrong 
impression  of  the  situation.  When  I  tell  you 
of  all  that  American  generosity  has  done  for 
us  here  you  cannot  get  an  idea  of  whole  ef- 
fort unless  I  impress  on  you  the  fact  that  we 
have  never  been  invaded,  and  that  we  are 
not  devastated  —  we  are  only  the  temporary 
asylum  of  those  who  have  suffered  both,  and 
are  homeless  and  naked.  Here  it  is  only  the 

[   90   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

dark,  sad  shadow  of  the  real  thing.  What 
has  been  so  generously  done  here  for  us  is 
but  a  drop  in  the  bucket  of  the  great  work 
which  the  Relief  Corps  are  doing  for  the 
poor  creatures  still  living  in  the  ruins  to  the 
north  and  east  of  us,  where,  in  tiny  hamlets, 
the  poor  tillers  of  the  soil  —  always  poor 
before  the  war  swept  over  them  —  are  likely 
to  freeze  and  to  starve  simply  because  the 
aid  which  is  so  ready  cannot  reach  them  fast 
enough.  In  many  places  there  is  no  aid  for 
sickness  unless  some  devoted  Sister  of  Mercy 
travels  with  it  as  far  as  human  strength  can 
go.  "  Out  there  "  new-born  babies  are  put  in 
boxes  and  covered  with  sawdust  to  try  to  keep 
them  warm.  There  darkness,  cold  and  hun- 
ger form  a  perpetual  trinity  of  suffering.  It 
is  almost  impossible  to  realize  the  amount  of 
aid  needed  simply  to  relieve  the  situation,  — 
curing  it  is  impossible.  When  I  look  at  the 
amount  that  has  been  given  us,  and  see,  even 
with  great  system,  how  rapidly  it  is  distrib- 
uted, and  calculate  what  it  must  require  to 
soften  the  situation  "  out  there,"  I  am  ap- 
palled as  much  as  I  am  thrilled  by  the  effort. 
It  is  not  merely  a  question  of  today  or  to- 
morrow, for  those  fed  today  and  tomorrow 
will  be  hungry  the  day  after,  and  those  who 
are  clothed  now  will  be  naked  in  the  spring. 

I  often  think  when  I  see  the  almost  super- 
human efforts  being  made  by  men  and  women 
all  over  the  world,  and  especially  in  the 

[   91    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

States,  to  relieve  the  suffering  from  the  war, 
of  the  difficulty  there  used  to  be  to  get  funds 
for  all  sorts  of  necessary  philanthropic  work. 
War  has  proved  that  the  means  exist.  Of 
course  it  is  not  as  picturesque  to  do  that  sort 
of  thing  against  a  peaceful  background.  But 
if  those  who  have  felt  it  a  privilege  to  serve 
during  the  war  felt  it  equally  their  duty  in 
times  of  peace  what  a  different  world  it  might 
become. 

There  is  an  American  Sanitary  Corps  at 
Couilly  —  they  have  brought  us  some  more 
"  flu,"  as  if  we  did  not  have  enough  of  our 
own. 

There  splutters  the  last  candle  —  good- 
night. 


[  9* 


VI 

October  18,  1918 

WELL,  this  has  been  the  first  day  of  cheer- 
ing that  we  have  had  here.  There  has  been 
no  bell-ringing  yet,  though  there  may  have 
been  in  Paris. 

Before  I  was  out  of  bed  this  morning  — 
long  before  the  boy  who  goes  to  Esbly  for 
the  newspapers  had  got  back  —  women  and 
children  were  running  down  the  road  crying 
"  Lille  est  prise,  le  roi  Albert  est  a  Ostende" 
and  then  every  one  in  the  place  seemed  to  be 
shouting.  I  assure  you  that  it  was  a  most 
unusual  sound.  It  made  us  feel  for  a  few 
minutes  as  if  the  first  objective  was  nearly 
won,  and  that  King  Albert  would  soon  be 
back  in  his  capital.  It  is,  to  be  sure,  a  far 
cry  from  that  to  our  former  dream  of  seeing 
him  ride  down  Unter  den  Linden  at  the  head 
of  a  triumphal  procession.  But  we  are  more 
modest  than  we  once  were,  more  's  the  pity. 

The  taking  of  Lille  releases  half  a  million 
French,  but  oh!  the  tragedies  it  will  surely 
bring  to  our  already  burdened  souls.  Four 
years  and  five  days  of  captivity  must  have 
had  a  sorry  etiect  on  many  of  them,  and  the 

[  93  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

joy  of  the  liberation  is  sure  to  be  spoiled  by 
the  tales  of  the  years  of  German  occupation, 
the  revived  memories  of  the  deportations, 
and  the  sadness  of  those  who  will  soon  return. 

My  first  thought  was  of  all  those  brave 
men  of  the  21 5th  Regiment  who  were  with 
us  in  January,  and  nearly  all  of  whom  were 
from  Lille ;  and  most  of  whom  had  been  with- 
out news  from  home  since  August,  1914.  I 
remembered  the  charming  captain  who  used 
to  drop  in  for  tea,  and  who  had  left  a  deli- 
cate wife  and  an  only  son  ill  with  typhoid 
fever,  and  wondered  what  news  he  would  get 
from  home,  and  of  the  sad  rush  there  would 
be  to  get  back,  and  of  all  the  delays  and 
difficulties. 

We  know  all  about  that  in  a  small  way 
here.  As  soon  as  the  Department  of  the 
Aisne  began  to  be  liberated,  such  refugies 
from  there  as  were  here  with  us  had  but  one 
idea,  —  to  go  home.  It  was  useless  to  argue 
with  them  that  their  houses  were  probably 
destroyed,  that  winter  was  coming,  that, 
apart  from  their  not  being  properly  shel- 
tered, it  would  be,  for  the  present,  impossible 
to  get  food  to  them,  roads  being  destroyed 
and  transportation  difficult.  None  of  those 
objections  moved  them.  They  preferred  to 
live  in  ruins  on  the  land  that  was  their  own, 
no  matter  what  its  condition,  to  risk  starvation 
in  their  native  place  rather  than  be  comfort- 
ably cared  for  here  in  comparative  security. 

[  94  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Of  course  the  civil  authorities  could  not  at 
once  give  them  passports,  and  without  them 
they  could  not  go  into  the  liberated  districts. 
It  was  pitiful  to  hear  them  plead,  in  spite  of 
the  facts  and  with  full  knowledge  of  what 
they  had  to  expect  when  they  got  home.  At 
least  they  would  find  the  ground  they  owned, 
and  you  know  to  a  peasant  the  land  is  much 
more  important  than  the  house.  A  house  is 
only  a  shelter,  and  for  them  a  shelter  is  easily 
arranged. 

During  my  last  visit  to  Paris  I  saw  some 
very  touching  scenes  at  the  railway  station. 
I  still  have  to  get  my  papers  stamped  by  the 
military  authorities  in  the  station  before  I 
can  present  myself  at  the  ticket-office,  where 
another  officer  examines  my  book  to  be  sure 
I  have  had  it  properly  countersigned.  The 
bureau  of  the  officer  who  examines  and 
stamps  my  papers  is  always  crowded  in  these 
days,  since  the  beginning  of  the  liberation, 
with  weeping  women  who  pray  to  be  allowed 
to  return  to  their  devastated  homes.  They 
are  almost  always  poor  peasants  who  are 
being  cared  for  in  Paris,  where  all  sorts  of 
committees  help  them  and  provide  them  with 
work.  But  "home"  is  out  there,  and,  de- 
stroyed or  not,  "  out  there  "  is  where  they 
want  to  go. 

I  wonder  if  that  is  especially  a  French  qual- 
ity? I  don't  know.  It  seems  to  me  not  to 
be  like  our  country  people.  Such  as  I  know 

[  95  ]' 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

usually  asked  nothing  better  than  to  move  on 
almost  anywhere  away  from  the  "  old  place." 
In  France  it  is  not  only  the  peasant  who  has 
that  sentiment.  Why,  I  remember  when  Le- 
gouve —  the  author  of  "Adrienne  Lecou- 
vreur  "  and  a  hundred  other  plays  —  died, 
just  after  I  came  to  Paris  to  live,  being  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  he  had  died  in  the  room 
where  he  was  born,  and  that  in  the  centre  of 
Paris.  So  it  must  surely  have  been  a  new  idea 
to  me,  accustomed  to  see  my  friends  move 
about  all  over  the  place.  I  suppose  that  must 
be  a  difference  between  an  old  country  and  a 
new. 

I  often  ask  myself  what  will  be  done  finally 
about  some  of  the  refugies  we  have  here. 
They  were  just  as  poor  where  they  came 
from  as  it  is  possible  to  be  and  'live.  They 
owned  nothing.  They  lived  in  the  tumbling 
down  houses  you  have  seen  in  your  travels  in 
agricultural  France —  rent  twenty  dollars  or 
so  a  year  —  and  worked  for  other  people. 
They  could  stay  on  and  work  here,  but  I  dare 
say  that  when  the  time  comes  they  will  be  as 
anxious  to  return  to  the  place  they  were  born 
in  and  work  among  the  people  they  grew  up 
with  as  if  they  had  left  property  there  as  well 
as  sentiment. 

Well,  Germany  declares  herself  ready  to 
accept  Wilson's  terms  for  the  evacuation  of 
occupied  territory,  and  the  long-awaited  revo- 
lution is  coming  to  her.  Let  the  revolution 

'[  96   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

go  on  by  all  means,  but  we  don't  want  the 
armistice  yet.  We  want  the  war  over  — 
every  one  on  the  face  of  the  earth  wants  that 
—  but  we  want  it  really  ended,  and  ended 
properly.  Ever  since,  in  June,  the  American 
Army  proved  itself  on  the  Marne  to  be  a 
fighting  army,  Germany  has  known  that  she 
could  not  win.  Naturally  she  regrets  that, 
but  I  have  seen  no  sign  that  she  regretted 
anything  but  that.  One  does  not  need  to  be 
a  very  keen  student  of  the  racial  characteris- 
tics of  Germany  to  know  that  she  will  some- 
how save  her  skin — if  we  let  her.  It  is  a 
purely  military  victory  for  the  Allies,  only 
made  possible  so  soon  by  the  loyalty  of  the 
States  in  speeding  up  as  they  have  and  the  aid 
of  the  English  ships  in  making  that  speeding 
up  possible.  I  only  pray  that  nothing  will  be 
done  which  will  permit  the  Boche  to  overlook 
the  fact  that  it  is  a  military  victory,  or  to 
camouflage  it  in  any  way.  It  was  as  a  mili- 
tary power  that  Germany  made  this  war,  and 
to  her  long-perfected  military  machine  she 
deliberately  added  every  scientific  terror, 
every  underhand  method  of  attack,  that  a 
trained,  money-supplied,  biologically  cruel 
race  could  muster.  She  has  taught  the  world 
much.  It  would  be  a  pity  if  we  could  not 
better  her  teaching.  Her  army  is  going  to 
be  beaten  to  a  finish.  But  her  character  is 
hardly  likely  to  change,  and  that  is  why  we 
here  are  praying  with  all  the  strength  we  have 

[  97   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

that  there  will  be  no  armistice  while  there  is 
a  chance  of  the  Huns  being  in  condition  to 
take  advantage  of  it. 

My  entire  household  is  down  with  the 
grippe  —  that  is,  all  except  Abelard.  He 
seems  to  be  immune  from  everything  of  that 
sort. 

I  ask  myself  if  one  reason  we  have  so  much 
illness  is  because  it  is  so  difficult  for  most 
people  to  keep  clean.  We  lacked  soap  here 
for  a  long  time.  It  is  almost  impossible  to 
get  any  washing  done.  Luckily  I  buy  soap 
in  rather  large  quantities.  In  the  end  it  is  an 
economy.  Then  also  I  had  a  couple  of  boxes 
given  me  among  the  things  to  be  distributed. 

I  have  had  more  occasions  to  know  how 
rare  it  is  than  just  not  being  able  to  get  laun- 
dry work  done.  I  have  told  you  that  we  lack 
kerosene?  Well,  we  lack  wood  alcohol  and 
gasoline  also.  The  other  day  Amelie  was  at 
Voisins,  and  she  saw  a  military  chauffeur 
washing  both  hands  and  his  camion  with  gaso- 
line. She  rushed  at  him,  and  asked  him  if 
he  had  no  shame  to  be  wasting  gasoline  like 
that  when  we  had  none  at  all?  He  replied 
that  he  would  like  to  know  how  he  was  to 
clean  the  grease  off  his  hands  since  he  had  no 
soap.  So  she  piloted  him  up  here,  and  we 
gave  him  hot  water  and  soap,  and  he  filled 
the  little  night  lamps  for  us. 

Before  we  had  recovered  from  that  little 
incident  one  of  the  American  boys  who  is  here 

[   98   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

with  the  Corps  Sanitaire  came  to  call.  I  no- 
ticed that  he  kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets  all 
the  time,  but  as  that  is  an  American  habit  it 
did  not  impress  me  particularly.  When  he 
was  leaving  he  said :  "  I  'd  like  to  shake  hands 
with  you,  but  the  truth  is,  my  hands  are  so 
filthy  that  I  don't  dare  even  to  let  you  see 
them.  Cold  water  and  no  soap  is  not  very 
cleansing  for  us  who  have  to  fuss  over  a 
motor." 

I  insisted  on  seeing  the  hands,  since  I  could 
remedy  that  situation  for  him  and  the  whole 
corps. 

There  was  a  chap  who  had  never  before 
been  dirty  in  his  life.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
college  professor,  and  a  literary  man  himself. 
But,  as  Amelie  says  when  she  meets  cases  like 
that,  "a  la  guerre  comme  a  la  guerre,''1  and 
when  I  say  anything  about  the  dirt  and 
pity  the  boys,  she  always  replies,  "  Dirt  is 
healthy,"  and  tries  to  prove  it  by  a  family 
we  have  here  —  four  children  —  who  have 
never  been  clean  in  their  lives  —  nor  sick 
either.  So  I  don't  know.  Do  you? 

As  I  am  doing  all  my  own  work  —  I  rather 
like  it — this  is  only  a  brief  line  to  tell  you 
nothing  the  papers  have  not  told  you  except 
that  we  did  shout  here  for  the  taking  of  Lille. 

Of  course  you  know  before  now  that  our 
boys  are  fighting  their  greatest  battle  —  per- 
haps the  greatest  ever  fought  by  Americans. 
I  had  a  letter  from  the  front  this  morning 

[  99  1 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

which  is  headed  simply  "  In  Europe,"  and 
says :  "  We  have  been  on  the  move  since  the 
last  of  August.  First  we  were  moved  up  as 
reserves  for  the  St.  Mihiel  drive  but  did  not 
see  any  action  there,  as  the  reserves  were  not 
needed.  We  camped  round  in  the  woods  in 
the  rain  until  it  was  sure  we  were  not  wanted, 
and  then  we  hit  the  road  again.  We  got  one 
short  truck  ride,  —  eighteen  men  to  a  truck 
only  meant  for  twelve,  —  and  then  it  was 
hike  —  and  hike  is  no  name  for  it.  We 
moved  at  night  and  camped  by  day,  as  our 
next  action  was  supposed  to  be  a  surprise 
attack. 

"After  waiting  all  night  in  position  on  the 
25th  of  September,  we  went  '  over  the  top  ' 
at  half-past  five  in  the  morning  of  the  26th 

on  the front.     [The  censor  had  erased 

the  name,  but  we  knew  here  it  was  Argonne.] 
Our  barrage  had  literally  turned  the  Boche 
trenches  upside  down,  and  we  had  fairly  easy 
going  until  afternoon,  when  we  met  stiff  op- 
position from  machine  guns  and  snipers,  and 
from  there  on  we  simply  caught  it.  If  the 
divisions  on  our  right  and  left  could  have  kept 
up,  it  would  have  been  a  heap  better  for  us, 
but  unfortunately  we  went  too  fast  for  them. 
We  were  relieved  once  on  October —  [date 
suppressed  by  censor]  but  we  were  no  sooner 
out  than  our  brigade  was  ordered  back  to 
help  another  division.  After  eighteen  days 
of  it  we  were  finally  relieved." 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

That  was  probably  six  days  ago,  and  the 
battle  is  still  going  on.  Today  is  the  twenty- 
third  day,  and  so  far  as  we  can  judge  there 
is  no  sign  of  a  let-up,  though  generally  speak- 
ing our  boys  seem  to  advance.  Only  think,  to 
thousands  of  them  this  terrible  battle  is  their 
baptism  of  fire. 


VII 

October  31,  1918 

WHAT  can  I  write  to  you  in  a  letter  during 
these  hard  days  of  suspense?  We  all  know 
that  Germany  is  breaking  down,  but  her  in- 
ternal troubles  don't  console  us  at  all,  and  we 
are  indifferent  to  the  royal  crowns  and  ducal 
coronets  rolling  about  like  knocked-down  men 
in  the  bowling  alley  of  history.  We  take 
note  that  Austria  is  out,  and  that  it  is  only 
a  matter  of  a  few  days  before  the  or- 
der "  Cease  firing "  will  be  given  on  the 
Balkan  front  and  Servia  will  be  freed.  We 
hardly  seem  to  have  a  word  to  say  regard- 
ing the  fact  that  where  it  began  it  has  first 
stopped. 

People  have  almost  ceased  to  talk  here. 
We  all  have  our  eyes  on  the  north-east,  and 
our  hopes  fixed  on  Foch,  and  we  keep  our 
minds  and  hands  nervously  occupied  with 
anything  that  offers.  Naturally  I  have  my 
own  particular  anxiety,  for  although  Ger- 
many is  giving  in  she  is  not  yet  giving  in 
easily.  The  terrible  fighting  in  the  Argonne 
Forest,  where  our  boys  are  at  grips  with 
them,  is  still  going  on,  and  today  is  the  thirty- 
[  102  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

seventh  day.  It  is  a- dreadful  country  to  fight 
in,  —  a  Belleau  Woods  on  a  big  scale. 

Mademoiselle  Henriette  came  back  from 
Salonica  last  week.  She  got  the  fever  out 
there  and  has  come  back  for  her  time  of 
convalescence,  but  returns  to  her  post  —  or 
another — in  December.  She  has  brought 
with  her  interesting  and  terrible  stories  of  the 
conditions  out  there,  and  a  great  amount  of 
photographic  documents.  But  that  is  a  long 
story,  and  some  time  in  the  future,  when  you 
are  over  here,  she  will  show  the  pictures  to 
you,  and  you  will  get  an  idea  of  what  it  is  like 
—  life  out  there  in  war-time. 

I  really  must  tell  you  one  thing.  I  have 
often  wondered  what  could  be  done  with  old 
sardine  boxes,  old  milk  tins,  old  meat  tins. 
Here  we  have  the  greatest  difficulty  with 
them.  I  rarely  go  to  walk  or  drive  that  I  do 
not  find  them  along  the  road  where  the  sol- 
diers have  thrown  them,  and  outside  every 
little  hamlet  there  is  a  heap  of  such  things 
salvaged  from  everywhere.  Pere  takes  ours 
and  buries  them  in  a  big  hole  in  the  ground, 
where  stone  has  been  quarried  to  mend  the 
roads.  I  always  contended  with  Amelie  that 
something  could  be  done,  as  there  should  be 
no  such  thing  as  waste.  Anyway,  nothing  is 
done  here  with  old  tin  boxes.  But  out  in 
Salonica  the  refugies  build  houses  with  them. 
Henriette  has  brought  photographs  of  whole 
settlements  so  constructed.  How  is  that? 

[    103    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Tell  me  what  they  do  in  the  States.  In  my 
time  tinned  food  was  less  common  than  now. 

On  Sunday  I  took  Mademoiselle  Henriette 
to  Meaux  to  lunch  with  the  English  friends 
I  have  there.  I  wrote  to  you  about  them 
after  the  big  German  drive  of  May  and 
June.  They  are  still  doing  hospital  service 
until  they  can  reorganize  to  advance  with  a 
new  cantine  wherever  they  are  most  needed 
on  a  new  front.  I  wanted  also  to  see  a  couple 
of  American  boys  who  are  in  the  Hospital 
Jeanne  d'Arc  —  boys  who  were  wounded  at 
Soissons. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  first  Foch  offensive 
there  were  a  great  many  Americans  at  the 
hospitals  at  Meaux.  It  was  not  intended  that 
they  should  go  into  the  French  hospitals,  but 
it  could  not  be  helped  sometimes,  and  for 
those  boys  it  was  very  fortunate  that  this  little 
group  of  English  ladies  were  there.  I  often 
wished  that  their  mothers  in  the  States  could 
have  known  what  affectionate  care  their  boys 
had,  so  far  from  home,  from  them  all;  and 
how  one,  a  middle-aged  woman,  wife  of  an 
English  officer,  petted  them  and  loved  them 
as  if  they  were  her  own.  She  has  been  work- 
ing for  a  long  time  at  the  cantine  at  the  rail- 
way station,  and  when  the  hospitals  at  Meaux 
began  to  receive  the  wounded  boys  from  the 
States  —  boys  who  could  speak  no  French 
and  were  cared  for  by  doctors  and  nurses  who 
spoke  no  English  —  she  gave  up  every  free 

[    104  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

hour,  by  night  as  well  as  day,  to  those  Amer- 
ican lads,  with  an  enthusiasm  so  whole- 
hearted and  so  loving  that  many  an  American 
woman  who  will  never  know  her  name  is  in 
deep  debt  to  her.  She  watched  over  our  boys. 
She  fed  as  well  as  loved  and  petted  them. 
Out  of  her  own  purse  she  bought  wine  and 
fruit  and  such  delicacies  as  she  could  find 
which  did  not  enter  into  the  regime  of  a 
French  hospital,  where  the  food  is  very 
simple.  She  consoled  them,  amused  them, 
wrote  their  letters  for  them.  More  than  one 
American  boy  died  with  his  hand  in  hers,  and 
many  a  morning  she  walked  behind  the  burial 
squad  and  stood  at  the  grave  of  a  boy  from 
the  States  —  the  only  mourner.  All  over 
Europe  today  there  are  women  of  all  races 
doing  just  these  beautiful  acts,  but  they  im- 
press one  in  a  more  personal  way  when  one 
knows  well  the  woman  who  is  doing  them 
so  simply. 

After  lunch  I  went  round  to  the  hospital 
to  see  these  two  lads,  who  were  the  only 
Americans  left  there.  They  were  lying  in 
bed,  side  by  side,  among  the  French  —  both 
mere  youngsters.  I  doubt  if  either  of  them 
had  ever  been  more  than  twenty  miles  from 
home  before.  They  had  been  seriously 
wounded  —  machine-gun  work — but  they 
were  at  last  on  the  road  to  recovery,  and 
oh!  they  were  so  bored.  Neither  of  them 
had  ever  been  sick  before,  so,  although  the 

[   105   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

hospital  was  a  good  one  as  military  hospi- 
tals go,  they  were  pining  for  home.  One  of 
them  —  a  handsome  six-footer  —  had  seen 
his  younger  brother,  who  was  also  his  chum, 
killed  at  his  side.  And  wasn't  he  fussy  at 
being  in  a  French  hospital?  He  didn't  like 
the  food.  He  could  n't  speak  the  language. 
He  was  just  well  enough —  out  of  pain  —  to 
fret,  and  he  wanted  an  American  nurse.  He 
craved  sweets.  He  was  weary  of  his  bed. 
He  was  tired  of  having  only  one  person  to 
talk  to.  He  was  sure  that  if  he  were  in  an 
American  hospital  he  would  be  out  of  bed, 
wheeling  around  in  a  rolling  chair.  It  was 
difficult  to  convince  him  that  he  had  probably 
not  been  moved  because  he  was  not  strong 
enough. 

His  beautiful  confidence  in  everything 
American  was  so  touching  that  it  was  a  great 
relief  for  me  to  get  word  a  few  days  later 
that  both  boys  had  been  taken  to  Juilly,  where 
they  wrote  me  little  notes  beginning  "  Dear 
Grandmama  Miss  Aldrich."  Wasn't  that 
cunning?  I  loved  it.  By  this  time  they  are 
rolling  about  in  the  longed-for  chairs,  if  they 
are  not — which  is  more  likely  —  walking  in 
the  park,  for  the  head  nurse  wrote  to  me  that 
they  would  soon  be  sent  home. 

Just  to  keep  things  lively  my  salon  chimney 

fell  down  the  other  day.    It  had  to  be  rebuilt, 

and  the  house  is  in  a  mess.     Whatever  else 

you  do,  don't  ever  let  the  masons  in  your 

[   106  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

house  while  you  are  in  it  yourself.  My  poor 
little  house  was  arranged  with  no  provisions 
for  this  sort  of  work  —  main  staircase  right 
in  the  salon,  no  doors  on  the  ground  floor, 
except  into  the  kitchen.  I  am  living  with 
everything  draped  with  big  sheets,  with  heaps 
of  plaster  and  stone  in  the  salon  through 
which  I  have  to  tramp  when  I  go  up  and 
down  stairs.  It  is  evident  that  I  am  to  be 
driven  out  whether  I  like  it  or  not.  I  don't 
mind  eating  my  allotted  peck  of  dirt,  but  I 
draw  the  line  at  plaster. 

Anyway,  I  need  some  more  layettes  for  the 
last  of  our  refugie  babies,  and  it  will  save 
time  to  go  after  them.  It  takes  a  long  time  to 
get  anything  down  from  Paris  by  express, 
and  I  don't  want  the  poor  little  ones  to  be 
wrapped  in  rags  if  I  can  help  it.  I  shall  come 
back  the  instant  Amelie  telegraphs  that  the 
fires  can  be  rebuilt.  As  things  are  I  might 
as  well  be  living  out  of  doors.  I  '11  write 
again  as  soon  as  I  get  back.  I  never  can 
write  letters  in  Paris. 


[   107  ] 


VIII 

November    15,    !Qi8 

WELL,  dear  old  girl,  the  war  is  over. 

I  have  tried  to  write  every  day  since  Tues- 
day, but  I  simply  could  not.  My  nerves  were 
all  frazzled.  It  is  hard  to  be  calm  enough 
to  talk  about  it,  and  it  has  been  impossible 
to  write.  I  suppose  I  shall  make  a  mess  of 
it  even  now.  But  I  know  that,  in  the  midst 
of  the  first  fury  of  excitement  and  the  enthu- 
siasm which  I  am  sure  has  arisen  in  one  great 
shout  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  and 
from  the  Arctic  Sea  to  the  Gulf,  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  bells  and  bands  and  cannon, 
you  have  often  thought  of  me,  and  wanted 
to  know  how  we  got  through  the  historic 
nth  of  November.  Can  it  be  that  it  was 
only  last  Monday? 

I  went  up  to  Paris,  as  I  told  you  I  should, 
my  house  not  being  habitable.  I  was  ter- 
ribly hurried,  and  so  impatient  to  get  home. 
I  went  directly  to  the  Bureau  of  the  Fund 
for  the  French  Wounded,  and  while  they 
arranged  to  make  up  the  bundle  for  me  to 
bring  back,  we  had  a  gay  little  talk  in  the 
same  tiny  room  where  in  June,  when  the 
[  108  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Germans  Hvere  pushing  toward  Paris,  we 
had  smiled  courage  at  one  another  and  as- 
sured each  other  that  the  Huns  could  not 
get  to  the  capital.  We  all  laughed  as  we 
recalled  that  tragic  day,  and  said,  "  Well, 
they  didn't,  did  they?" 

I  came  back  on  the  7th.  I  found  my 
house  in  order,  a  huge  fire  roaring  in  the 
new  brick  chimney,  and  every  one  —  cats, 
dogs,  and  all  —  glad  to  see  me. 

The  days  had  been  critical  ones.  The 
Turks  had  already  gone  out  of  the  fight  on 
the  last  day  that  I  wrote  you,  but  the  news 
had  not  reached  us  out  here.  At  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  Monday,  No- 
vember 4th,  the  Austrians  had  signed  their 
armistice  and  Servia  was  free.  All  these 
things  had  been  inevitable  for  a  long  time. 
It  had  been  only  a  question  of  the  date,  and 
they  left  the  principal  criminal  alone  against 
the  wall,  and  brought  to  pass  what  has  fol- 
lowed sooner  than  we  expected —  or  wished. 

Germany  had  been  defeated  a  long  time, 
and  her  civil  population  had  been  showing 
what  we  all  knew  must  come  —  signs  that 
we  were  facing  the  worst  losers  history  had 
ever  seen,  the  most  unsportsmanlike  nation 
that,  convinced  of  its  superior  brute  force, 
ever  went  into  war.  When  historians  of  the 
future  study  the  German  mentality  what  a 
showing-up  the  Huns  will  get!  When  you 
remember  —  and  who  will  ever  forget?  — 

[    109   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

how  France  stood  up  against  her  mighty  and 
tricky  foe,  how  she  was  beaten  back  time 
after  time,  and  still  staggered  up  and  fought 
on  again  on  her  devastated,  blood-stained 
soil,  what  a  picture  in  comparison  Germany 
has  traced  of  herself,  safe  within  herv  own 
frontiers,  untouched  and  unspoiled,  and  yet 
going  to  pieces  at  the  approach  of  the  Allied 
Armies  —  while  they  were  still  fifty  miles 
from  the  Rhine ! 

I  had  an  exciting  trip  home. 

Paris  was  almost  unnaturally  calm,  in 
spite  of  the  lines  of  German  cannon  point- 
ing their  impotent  camouflaged  noses  into 
the  Champs-Elysees,  from  the  Arc  to  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde,  which  kept  war  before 
the  eyes  of  the  city,  and  looked  like  a  symbol 
of  Germany's  hopeless  position.  But  quiet 
—  almost  strangely  silent  —  as  the  city 
looked,  the  air  was  full  of  whispered  stories. 
It  was  already  known  that  the  German  Com- 
mission had  left  Spa  —  Wilson  having  at  last 
put  an  end  to  all  futile  talk  over  the  heads 
of  the  armies  by  saying  the  words  we  had 
so  long  listened  for,  — "  Adressez-'vous  a 
Foch"  —  and  of  Foch  every  one  felt  sure. 
They  knew  he  would  give  the  world  a  mili- 
tary, not  a  philosophical,  armistice. 

At  the  station  I  met  a  lot  of  American 
boys  just  starting  for  the  front  —  and  so  dis- 
gusted. A  young  officer  told  me  that  it  was 
rumoured  that  the  order  to  "cease  firing" 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

had  been  given  at  midnight.  I  was  sure  that 
it  was  not  possible,  unless  such  an  order 
might  have  been  given  on  that  part  of  the 
line  toward  which  the  German  flag  of  truce 
was  approaching,  if  it  had  not  already 
passed.  At  that  time  we  did  not  know  where 
the  Germans  were  to  meet  Foch. 

On  the  train  no  one  talked.  There  were 
no  outward  signs  of  excitement.  Every  one 
had  his  nose  buried  in  a  newspaper.  The 
only  person  to  whom  I  spoke  was  a  young 
French  officer.  We  stood  in  the  corridor, 
and  under  my  breath  I  asked  him  if  he  had 
any  news.  He  said  he  had  not,  and  he  added 
that  he  hoped  the  armistice  would  not  be 
signed  at  0nce,  as  it  was  generally  known 
that  the  biggest  Allied  offensive  of  all  was 
soon  to  be  launched,  which  would  surely  re- 
sult in  Germany's  Sedan  —  which  she  had 
well  merited  and  ought  not  to  escape.  Then 
he  added:  "  If  you  saw  the  map  of  the  battle 
positions  in  the  Excelsior  on  the  4th  and  that 
of  the  American  victory  on  the  Argonne 
yesterday,  compare  them,  and  you  will  see 
what  will  happen  in  a  few  days  if  Foch  is 
left  a  free  hand." 

That  very  afternoon,  before  I  unpacked, 
I  laid  out  the  maps  in  question,  and  saw  the 
Germans  being  encircled. 

Then  I  got  out  my  layettes  and  started  for 
the  Mairie.  There  I  had  a  long  talk  with 
one  of  the  local  authorities.  I  asked  him  if 

[   in   J 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

any  news  had  come  by  telegraph  since  we  got 
the  morning  papers.  He  told  me  "  noth- 
ing," except  that  the  German  emissaries 
were  crossing  the  frontier  that  night,  prob- 
ably at  Haudroy. 

You  can  imagine  me  hurrying  home, — 
that  is,  hurrying  in  Ninette's  manner,  —  and 
before  I  took  off  my  hat,  studying  the  map 
again.  I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  find- 
ing out  anything  about  Haudroy,  which 
proved  to  be  only  a  tiny  hamlet,  hardly 
more  important  than  Huiry.  As  it  is  in  that 
part  of  the  line  where  the  Army  of  General 
Debeney  has  done  some  hard  fighting  it  was 
easy  to  guess  that  the  German  flag  of  truce 
would  get  some  bumping. 

It  was  not  until  Friday  morning  —  the 
8th  —  that  we  knew  at  what  place  Foch  was 
to  receive  the  German  delegates,  and  dic- 
tate to  them  the  only  terms  on  which  an 
armistice  for  the  cessation  of  hostilities  could 
be  considered. 

As  soon  as  I  knew  the  place  selected  was 
Ronthondes,  in  the  forest  of  Compiegne,  I 
went  out  into  the  garden  and  looked  to  the 
north,  where,  only  forty  miles  away,  the 
historical  meeting  was  taking  place.  In  my 
mind's  eye  I  imagined  that  I  could  see  those 
huge  automobiles  crossing  the  shell-ploughed 
country,  taking  the  word  "pass"  from  the 
lips  of  French  officers  guarding  the  route, 
the  white  flags  flapping  in  the  French  air  by 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

day,  and  by  night  the  big  phares  sending 
long  rays  of  light  into  the  faces  of  the 
French  poilus  crouched  along  the  way,  or 
signalling  them  to  stop  and  give  the  word. 
I  suppose  forever  in  the  tradition  of  some 
French  families  will  be  cherished  the  recol- 
lection of  that  stirring  moment,  and  the 
memories  of  those  of  theirs  who  watched  the 
passing  of  those  cars,  —  representative  of 
France's  victory  and  Germany's  defeat, — 
and  their  children's  children  will  relate  it. 
In  future  days  it  may  be  that  tourists  will 
go  over  the  road  and  still  be  touched  by  the 
glory  and  pathos  of  what  that  passing  has 
cost.  I  only  hope  that  the  historical  society 
will  mark  the  way  with  white  stones. 

Saturday  morning  we  read  here  the  armis- 
tice,—  as  you  did  in  the  States,  —  and  stiff 
as  the  terms  were,  we  knew  that  Germany 
could  not  hesitate,  just  as  we  knew  that  Foch 
would  not  discuss.  I  had  only  to  look  at  the 
two  maps  I  had  studied  two  days  before  to 
know  that  Germany  was  forced  to  accept 
even  if  the  terms  had  been  harder.  Yet  I 
could  have  cried  to  think  it  had  come  so 
soon.  I  knew  that  once  Germany  had,  with 
Wilson's  aid,  been  allowed  to  talk,  the  ar- 
mistice was  inevitable.  Beaten  to  the  point 
where  her  case  was  hopeless,  and  where  the 
final  surrender  of  her  army  was  in  sight,  she 
could  only  save  herself  from  invasion  by 
accepting  any  terms  proposed.  She  could 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

do  it  more  easily  than  any  other  nation, 
being  devoid  of  real  pride  and  not  having 
too  much  respect  for  her  signature.  As  for 
the  Allies,  no  matter  how  they  felt,  they 
could  hardly  go  on  with  the  fighting  once 
Germany  yielded.  Much  as  one  grieved 
that  the  surrender  was  made  with  Germany 
still  the  invader,  the  order  "Cease  firing" 
meant  the  saving  of  thousands  of  lives.  I 
simply  put  up  a  prayer  that  with  all  the  les- 
sons the  Allied  Nations  have  had  from  the 
Germans,  they  will  not  this  time  give  Ger- 
many any  chance  to  be  tricky. 

Convinced  that  the  armistice  was  as  good 
as  signed,  Sunday  was  a  quiet  day  —  that  is, 
it  was  quiet  for  every  one  but  me. 

It  happened  that  I  was  the  only  American 
in  sight,  and  it  being  in  the  minds  of  the 
simple  people  among  whom  I  live  that  the  en- 
trance into  the  war  of  the  boys  from  the 
States  had  saved  the  world  from  another 
war  winter,  —  as  of  course  it  did,  —  the 
commune  seemed  to  deem  it  necessary  to 
salute  the  Stars  and  Stripes  in  me.  So  early 
in  the  afternoon,  while  I  was  still  out  on  the 
lawn,  wondering  at  what  time  the  next  day 
it  would  all  be  over,  and  still  hearing  now 
and  then  the  far-off  sounds  of  the  artillery, 
which  reminded  us  that  they  would  fight 
right  up  to  the  last  minute,  the  garde-cham- 
petre  from  Couilly  came  into  the  garden,  put 
his  heels  together,  —  he  is  an  old  chasseur, 


—  saluted  me  formally,  presented  me  the 
hommages  of  the  Civil  government,  and 
asked  if  Madame  would  do  them  the  honour 
to  receive  them  on  Monday — probably 
Armistice  Day  —  at  two  o'clock. 

Madame  was  a  little  confused,  but  she 
said  she  would.  The  garde  champetre 
backed  away,  saluted  again,  and  said  he 
should  do  himself  the  honour  of  escorting 
them,  and  marched  out  of  the  garden  in  his 
most  soldierly  manner. 

I  had  not  really  bucked  up  after  that  sur- 
prise when  I  saw  a  procession  coming  over 
the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  there  were  the  chil- 
dren of  the  commune,  conducted  by  the  cure, 
and  marshalled  by  his  housekeeper, — march- 
ing two  and  two, — the  little  tots  leading  with 
bunches  of  flowers  in  their  hands,  and  the 
bigger  girls  carrying  a  huge  pot  of  chrys- 
anthemums bringing  up  the  rear. 

I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  was  a  bit  con- 
fused, and,  Yankee  fashion,  I  carried  it  off 
by  being  very  active  and  most  informal.  I 
am  afraid  that  I  was  as  bad  as  dear  Colonel 
Roosevelt,  who  smashed  the  French  protocol 
all  to  pieces  when  the  French  Government 
once  went  in  its  formal  way  to  meet  him  at 
the  station.  He  spoiled  their  formality  and 
defied  all  their  ideas  of  precedence,  and  scat- 
tered his  greetings  where  his  affections  were, 
in  true  American  spirit,  which  knows  no  law 
but  its  heart. 

[  "5  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  did  not,  of  course,  realize  what  I  was 
doing  until  afterward.  I  upset  the  proces- 
sion, spoiled  the  speech  of  the  "  littlest  girl," 
hustled  them  into  the  house  without  cere- 
mony, not  even  giving  them  a  chance  to  make 
their  reverences.  Then  I  bustled  round  to 
find  a  little  chocolate  which  I  had  just  re- 
ceived from  America,  my  one  idea  being  that 
children  must  be  fed  at  once.  However,  it 
passed  off  prettily,  and  I  did  not  realize  until 
afterward  that  the  children's  part  had  all 
been  rehearsed.  Well,  mine  hadn't. 

When  it  was  over,  and  they  had  formed 
their  procession  and  marched  away  again, 
I  sat  down  and  laughed.  I  suppose  the  little 
tots  had  said:  " Elles  sont  droles,  ces  Ameri- 
cdines"  Really  one  has  to  be  born  French 
and  bred  French  to  go  through  with  these 
functions  properly,  and  everything  has  its 
tradition  with  the  French,  even  going  to 
school.  That  is  why  French  children  have 
such  pretty,  half-formal  manners.  There  is 
a  correct  way  for  them  of  doing  everything, 
even  writing  a  letter,  and  they  learn  it  all  so 
young  that  it  becomes  a  second  nature  to 
them,  and  enables  them  to  do  and  say  things 
in  an  absolutely  unconscious  manner  which  we 
outsiders  in  France  cannot  achieve  without 
embarrassment. 

The  expected  news  came  early  Monday 
morning.  As  we  anticipated,  the  Germans 
had  accepted  the  hard  terms  of  the  "  uncon- 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

ditional  surrender,"  and  the  order  had  been 
given  to  u  cease  firing  "  at  eleven.  We  had 
known  it  would  come,  but  the  fact  that  the 
order  had  been  given  rather  stunned  us.  To 
realize  that  it  was  over!  How  could  one 
in  a  minute? 

I  was  up  early  to  wait  for  the  papers.  It 
was  a  perfectly  white  day.  The  whole  world 
was  covered  with  the  first  hoar  frost  and 
wrapped  in  an  impenetrable  white  fog,  as 
if  the  huge  flag  of  truce  were  wound  around 
it.  I  went  out  on  the  lawn  and  turned  my 
eyes  toward  the  invisible  north.  Standing 
beside  my  little  house  I  was  as  isolated  as  if 
I  were  alone  in  the  world,  with  all  the  memo- 
ries of  these  years  since  that  terrible  day  in 
August,  1914.  I  could  not  see  as  far  as  the 
hedge.  Yet  out  there  I  knew  the  guns  were 
still  firing,  and  between  them  and  me  lay 
such  devastation  as  even  the  imagination 
cannot  exaggerate,  and  such  suffering  and 
pain  as  the  human  understanding  can  but 
partly  conceive.  Against  the  white  sheet 
which  encircled  me  I  seemed  to  see  the  back 
water  of  the  war  which  touched  here,  so  far 
from  where  the  crests  of  the  big  waves  had 
broken  and  engulfed  so  much  and  left  its 
flotsam  and  jetsam  for  the  future  to  salvage. 
Four  years  and  four  months  —  and  how  much 
is  still  before  us?  The  future  has  its  job 
laid  out  for  it.  Is  ordinary  man  capable  of 
putting  it  over? 

[   "7  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  had  expected  that  at  eleven,  when  they 
ceased  firing  at  the  front,  our  bells  —  which 
have  only  tolled  for  so  long  —  would  ring 
out  the  victory.  We  had  our  flags  all  ready 
to  run  up.  I  was  standing  on  the  lawn  listen- 
ing, flags  ready  at  the  gate,  and  Amelie  stood 
in  the  window  at  her  house,  ready  to  hang 
out  hers.  All  along  the  road,  though  I  could 
not  see  them  for  the  fog,  I  knew  that  women 
and  children  were  listening  with  me.  The 
silence  was  oppressive.  Not  a  sound  reached 
me,  except  now  and  then  the  passing  of  a 
train  over  the  Marne.  Then  Amelie  came 
down  to  say  that  lunch  was  ready,  and  that 
I  might  as  well  eat  whether  I  had  any  appe- 
tite or  not,  and  that  perhaps  something  had 
happened,  and  that  after  lunch  she  would 
go  over  to  Quincy  and  find  out  what  it  was. 

So,  reluctantly,  I  went  into  the  house. 

It  was  just  quarter  past  twelve  when  I 
heard  some  one  running  along  the  terrace, 
and  a  child's  voice  called,  "  Ecoutez,  Ma- 
dame, ecoutez!  Les  carillons  de  Meaux!  " 

I  went  out  on  to  the  lawn  again  and 
listened. 

Far  off,  faint  through  the  white  sheet  of 
mist,  I  could  hear  the  bells  of  the  cathedral, 
like  fairy  music,  but  nothing  more.  I  waited, 
expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  bells 
from  Couilly  or  Quincy  or  Conde,  and  the 
guns  from  the  forts.  But  all  was  silent. 
There  were  no  longer  any  groups  on  the 
[  118  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

roads.  I  knew  that  every  one  had  gone 
home  to  eat.  Somewhere  things  were  hap- 
pening, I  was  sure  of  that.  But  I  might 
have  been  alone  on  a  desert  island.  I  was 
too  nervous  to  keep  still  any  longer,  so  I 
walked  up  to  the  corner  of  the  Chemin 
Madame,  thinking  I  might  hear  the  bells 
from  there.  As  I  stood  at  the  corner  I 
heard  footsteps  running  toward  me  on  the 
frozen  ground,  and  out  of  the  fog  came 
Marin,  the  town  crier,  with  his  drum  on  his 
back  and  a  cocarde  in  his  cap.  He  waved  his 
drumsticks  at  me  as  he  ran,  and  cried,  "  I 
am  coming  as  fast  as  I  can,  Madame.  We 
are  ringing  up  at  four  —  at  the  same  time 
the  Tiger  reads  the  terms  in  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies  and  Lloyd  George  reads  them 
in  London,"  and  as  he  reached  the  corner 
just  above  my  gate  he  swung  his  drum  round 
and  beat  it  up  like  mad. 

It  did  not  take  two  minutes  for  all  our 
little  hamlet  to  gather  about  him,  while  in 
a  loud,  clear  voice  he  read  solemnly  the  ordre 
de  jour  which  officially  announced  that  the 
war  had  ended  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  in- 
habitants of  the  commune  were  authorized 
to  hang  out  their  flags,  light  up  their  win- 
dows, and  join  in  a  dignified  and  seemly 
celebration  of  the  liberation  of  France  from 
the  foot  of  the  invader.  Then  he  slowly 
lifted  his  cap  in  his  hand  as  he  read  the  con- 
cluding phrase,  which  begged  them  not  to 

[  "9  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

forget  to  pray  for  the  brave  men  who  had 
given  their  lives  that  this  day  might  be,  nor 
to  be  unmindful  that  to  many  among  us  this 
day  of  rejoicing  was  also  a  day  of  mourning. 

There  was  not  a  cheer. 

Morin  swung  the  drum  over  his  shoulder, 
saluted  his  audience,  and  marched  solemnly 
down  the  hill.  He  had  finished  his  round. 

In  dead  silence  the  little  group  broke  up. 
I  came  slowly  back  to  my  garden,  followed 
by  my  household,  including  Dick  and  Khaki, 
for  they  had  gone  out  with  me  to  listen  to 
the  armistice  proclamation.  Amelie  told 
the  whole  story,  when  she  dropped  on  a 
bench  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  with  dry  eyes 
and  tightened  lips  exclaimed,  "  Enfinf  C'est 
fni.  Onlesaf" 

After  all,  that  was  the  important  thing. 
It  is  not  what  we  hoped  for,  or  what  we 
wanted,  but  the  butchery  was  over,  and  I 
don't  see  how  the  French,  on  whose  bodies 
and  souls  the  burden  had  fallen,  or  how  that 
France  which  has  paid  a  price  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  her  population  can,  in  her  disap- 
pointment even,  have  any  other  thought  just 
now. 

But,  of  course,  the  day  was  not  yet  over 
for  me.  I  had  still  that  official  visit  to  face. 

Less   than   an   hour   after   Marin   passed 

over  the  hill  the  mayor  and  his  suite  arrived 

to  present  me  formally  with  the  thanks  of 

the  commune  for  the  part  I  had  taken  in 

[    120  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

sharing  the  hard  days  with  them.  I  did  so 
wish  again  for  some  magic  means  by  which 
every  one  of  the  American  women  who  had 
stretched  out  generous  helping  hands  across 
the  sea  to  this  little  place  could  have  wit- 
nessed the  scene,  and  heard  me  try  to  make 
a  French  speech.  It  halted  a  bit,  but  the 
French  are  apt  at  understanding.  As  far  as 
their  faces  went  I  might  have  been  rivalling 
the  best  French  orator.  I  put  the  honors 
where  they  were  due.  But  in  spite  of  all  I 
said,  for  the  moment  I  was  to  them  — 
America.  Then  I  had  a  surprise. 

I  am  so  little  French,  after  all  these  years, 
that  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  some- 
thing ought  to  be  opened  up  on  such  an  oc- 
casion. But,  thank  God,  there  is  always 
Amelie,  who  adores  the  Americans,  and  is 
terribly  proud  of  us.  You  see  every  one  who 
comes  to  call  says  to  her  "  I  guess  that  you 
are  Amelie,"  and  you  should  see  her  beam. 
So  just  at  the  critical  moment  she  appeared 
in  the  salon  behind  me.  I  heard  her  pretty, 
gay  voice  say,  "  Bonjour,  Monsieur  le  maire. 
Bonjour,  messieurs  "  and  there  she  stood  be- 
side me  in  her  white  apron,  carrying  a  tray 
of  glasses  and  a  bottle  of  champagne  and  a 
jar  of  biscuit,  and  everything  decked  out 
with  the  best  there  was  in  the  house  in  a 
manner  that  she  believed  to  be  tout  a  fait 
Americain.  Now  I  ask  you  —  would  you 
swap  her? 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

So  she  filled  the  glasses  and  they  all  drank 
my  health,  and  then  they  held  their  glasses 
high  above  their  heads  —  the  nice  old  men 
— -and  criecf,  " P'tvenf  £cs  itirmff  +4vneri- 
caines,  et  Dieu  les  benissent"  So  I  pass  the 
blessing  on  to  you  who  have  earned  it.  I 
have  represented  you  the  very  best  I  knew 
how. 

You  would  have  loved  to  hear  them  talk 
about  "les  soldats  Americains"  —  our  own 
dear  boys  —  "without  whom,"  to  quote  the 
mayor,  "  we  should  have  been  invaded  here 
in  June,  and  without  whose  aid  there  would 
have  been  no  victory  yet  —  and  perhaps 
never." 

They  all  went  out  on  the  lawn  before  tak- 
ing their  leave  to  look  off  toward  the  battle- 
field. It  was  still  shrouded,  although  the  mist 
had  thinned.  'There,"  said  the  mayor, 
making  a  sweeping  gesture  toward  the  north, 
"there  after  all  it  was  decided,  perhaps, 
right  under  our  eyes.  But  for  that  victory 
all  the  aid  the  States  sent  us  later  would  have 
been  in  vain."  Perhaps.  At  any  rate  that  is 
still  the  opinion  of  every  one,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  we  all  know  that  speculation  on 
what  "  might  have  happened,"  if  what  did 
happen  had  not  happened,  is  vain. 

Then  we  all  shook  hands  at  the  gate,  and 
they  hurried  back  to  Couilly  to  ring  the  first 
peal  on  the  church  bells  to  salute  the  victory. 

I  did  not  go  with  them,  as  they  suggested. 
[  122  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  was  content  to  sit  here  on  the  spot  where 
I  had  watched  in  those  hot  days  of  Sep- 
tember, 1914,  ?.nd  listen  to  the  £cean  of  vic- 
tory where  I  had  seen  the  first  military  suc- 
cess. I  knew  that  I  should  hear  all  about  the 
bell-ringing  from  those  who  went  down.  I 
preferred  to  be  alone. 

The  mist  was  lifting  slightly.  All  along 
the  valley  the  bells  rang  for  hours,  cut  at 
regular  intervals  by  the  booming  of  the  guns 
at  the  forts. 

I  sat  on  the  lawn  alone,  thinking  that  all 
over  France  —  wherever  the  bells  had  not 
been  destroyed  —  this  same  scene  was  being 
enacted,  and  sure  that  in  Paris,  where  Clem- 
enceau  was  standing  in  the  tribune  before 
the  deputies,  his  reading  of  the  terms  of  the 
armistice  was  being  punctuated  by  the  guns 
at  Mont  Valerian  saluting  the  victory,  and 
the  cheers  in  the  streets. 

Still,  to  see  real  France  —  to  see  its  very 
soul  —  one  should  see  it  at  such  a  time  in  the 
small  hamlets  rather  than  in  Paris,  which  is 
more  cosmopolitan  than  French,  and  which 
is,  in  these  days,  so  crowded  with  foreigners 
of  all  sorts  as  to  be  almost  anything  rather 
than  really  French. 

I  sat  there  a  long  time,  with  panoramic 
memories  racing  before  my  mind,  in  the  mist. 
Now  and  then  Amelie  came  out  to  throw  an 
extra  cover  over  my  knees  —  as  it  grew  very 
cold  —  or  to  fetch  me  a  hot  drink.  But  she 

[   123   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

never  spoke.     We  were  neither  of  us  in  the 
mood  to  talk. 

I  am  sure  that  everywhere  outside  the  big 
cities  there  were  more  tears  than  laughter 
that  afternoon.  "We  have  won,"  as  Ame- 
lie  said,  but  oh!  it  was  hard  to  remember 
that  victory  had  come,  just  as  I  told  you  in 
April  it  ought  not  to  come  —  Germany  had 
got  her  armistice  for  the  asking,  and  the 
order,  "  Cease  firing,"  had  been  given  while 
"  no  man's  land "  lay  devastated  and  dis- 
torted between  the  Allied  armies  and  the 
frontier.  It  seemed  as  if  I  simply  could  not 
bear  it  —  with  Germany  unpunished  and  ab- 
solutely unrepentant  —  with  her  revolution 
looking  like  a  camouflage,  her  coward  of  a 
Kaiser,  without  even  the  pluck  to  die  at  the 
head  of  his  army,  in  flight,  evidently  on  the 
principle  that  he  "  who  fights  and  runs  away 
may  live  to  fight  another  day." 

Of  course  we  have  broken  the  1914 
Humpty-Dumpty  to  bits,  and  it  is  true  that 
"  all  the  King's  horses  and  all  the  King's 
men"  can't  put  that  Humpty-Dumpty  to- 
gether again,  but  they  can  easily  make 
another. 

I  could  not  help  thinking  what  a  pity  it 
was  that  the  peace  terms  were  not  all  ready 
to  be  imposed  at  once.  It  is  a  great  military 
victory,  pure  and  simple.  The  Allied  armies 
have  beaten  the  great  German  military  ma- 
chine. Today  Germany  would  have  to  ac- 

[    124   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

cept  any  terms  offered  her,  but,  with  such  a 
race,  in  another  month  it  will  be  another 
matter. 

Did  you  ever  think  how  menacing  this  fact 
is — 'the  Allies,  following  on  and  accepting 
the  Wilsonian  idea,  have  declared  loudly  that 
a  people  is  entitled  to  choose  its  own  govern- 
ment, and  seem  to  have  entirely  overlooked 
the  fact  that  Germany  was  perfectly  content 
with  hers.  Against  one  of  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  the  new  order  it  has  been  smashed 
because  we  have  forced  her  to  smash  it  or 
be  annihilated.  You  see  I  do  want  some  real 
peace  for  my  closing  years.  I  can't  see  any 
chance  of  it  until  the  attitude  toward  Ger- 
many is  stiffened. 

Still,  never  mind  that.  For  the  present 
at  least  the  wholesale  slaughter  is  over. 
Never  again  in  my  time  will  our  part  of  the 
world  lie  down  to  restless  sleep,  tortured  by 
the  thought  of  the  young  lives  the  day  has 
seen  sacrificed  even  for  a  noble  cause. 
Never  again  shall  we  listen  in  the  night  for 
the  alerte  which  warns  us  of  the  passing  of 
death-dealers  in  the  air. 

Still,  if  I  had  dreamed  that  silencing  the 
guns  was  to  bring  me  instant  peace,  I  was 
mistaken.  I  have  rarely  been  more  nervous 
than  I  was  on  Armistice  Day,  or  than  I  have 
been  ever  since.  I  can't  help  remembering 
that  this  is  only  an  armistice,  and  wondering 
if,  since  Germany  got  it  the  first  time  she 

[    125   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

asked  —  saving  her  army,  escaping  invasion 
—  we  can  really  impose  on  her  a  punishing 
peace  ?  First  and  last  every  one  of  the  Allies 
has  been  a  blunderer  in  diplomacy.  Are  they 
going  to  blunder  in  imposing  peace  terms? 

Finally,  just  to  occupy  myself  and  shake 
off  such  black  thoughts,  I  went  into  the  house, 
and  while  the  guns  were  still  thundering  and 
the  bells  pealing,  I  prepared  for  the  illumina- 
tion. I  did  not  feel  much  in  the  humour. 
Still,  we  call  it  a  victory  and  I  felt  that  light- 
ing up  might  cheer  other  people  even  if  it  did 
not  me.  Anyway,  it  was  something  to  do. 

I  was  glad  that  I  had  laid  in  that  big  stock 
of  candles.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  even  if 
I  had  to  sit  in  darkness  all  the  rest  of  the 
winter  I  would  illuminate.  I  can  tell  you  it 
was  a  job,  but  it  looked  pretty  enough  to 
repay  me  for  the  work. 

We  had  to  take  down  all  the  curtains,  of 
course,  —  you  know  those  French  windows. 
I  had  a  double  row  in  every  window  from 
attic  to  cellar  —  there  are  fourteen.  Every 
one  came  up  both  sides  of  the  hill  to  see  it. 
They  said  it  was  visible  from  Conde,  and  a 
neighbor  who  went  to  Meaux  by  a  late  train 
told  me  that  it  made  a  bright  spot  in  the  thin 
haze  as  seen  from  the  train. 

Suzanne  and  I  had  worked  very  hard. 
We  had  to  make  the  candle  supports  our- 
selves, and  ingeniously  swung  them  with 
wires. 

[    126  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  can't  tell  you  how  wonderful  it  looked 
to  us  who  for  over  three  years  have  not 
been  able  to  show  a  light,  and  for  two  years 
have  not  been  allowed  a  lantern  on  the  road. 
Have  you  ever  walked  on  a  moonless  night 
on  a  country  road?  Many  a  winter  night  I 
have  gone  out  to  lock  the  garden  gate  when 
I  could  not  see  it,  and  have  walked  off  the 
terrace  into  the  flower  beds,  and  had  to  feel 
along  the  front  wall  of  the  house  to  find  the 
door.  Of  course  I  got  used  to  it,  but  it  really 
was  a  queer  sensation  to  think  that  it  was  all 
over  —  and  so  suddenly — and  that  I  had 
no  longer  to  be  sure  that  the  blinds  were 
closed  and  curtains  drawn  all  over  the  house 
before  I  could  light  a  lamp.  It  was  not  only 
in  the  winter  that  it  was  hard.  In  the  sum- 
mer, imagine  having  a  sleepless  warm  night 
and  not  being  able  to  read  unless  blinds  and 
thick  curtains  excluded  all  air.  Think  of 
all  that,  and  then  imagine  being  able  to  hear 
a  gun  without  giving  it  a  thought,  or  watch 
the  phare  of  an  aero  at  night  without  the 
smallest  nervousness.  That  is  what  the  ar- 
mistice means  to  us,  unsatisfactory  as  it  is. 

While  Suzanne  and  I  were  arranging  the 
candles  those  who  had  gone  down  to  Couilly 
or  over  to  Quincy  to  take  an  active  part  in 
the  bell-ringing  came  back  to  tell  us  all  about 
it  —  how  the  civil  authorities  aided  the  bell- 
man to  ring  the  first  peal,  and  then  how  every 
one  —  women  and  children  —  hung  on  the 

[    127  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

rope  and  all  pulled  together.  I  rather  re- 
gretted that  I  had  not  gone  down. 

There  must  have  been  some  pretty  scenes 
in  that  old  church.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  that 
every  day  at  five  o'clock  there  is  a  silent 
prayer  there  and  that  all  the  men  of  our 
commune  at  the  front  knew  it  and  were  sup- 
posed, wherever  they  were,  to  pause,  turn 
their  faces  toward  home,  and  join  in  the 
prayer  being  said  for  them  here? 

I  did  not  go  to  bed  until  midnight  —  not 
until  the  candles  were  burned  down.  Every- 
thing was  quiet  except  now  and  then  a  foot- 
step on  the  road,  or  the  explosion  of  a  can- 
non cracker  —  as  if  we  had  not  enough  of 
that  sort  of  noise.  But  I  suppose  the  young- 
sters had  not.  I  was  walking  at  about  half- 
past  ten  in  the  garden,  admiring  my  illumi- 
nated house  —  you  have  no  idea  how  pretty 
the  outline  of  all  the  gables  looked  —  when 
some  one  threw  a  petard  over  the  wall  and 
it  exploded  right  at  my  feet.  I  detest  fire- 
crackers. It  gave  me  a  start,  and  I  called 
out  to  the  lad  who  threw  it  that  I  did  not  in 
the  least  want  to  interfere  with  his  amuse- 
ment, but  that  I  begged  him  not  to  throw  his 
explosives  into  my  garden  while  I  was  walk- 
ing there.  He  said,  "  Pardon,  Madame," 
and  went  on  down  the  hill,  but  I  suppose 
that  boy-like  he  resented  it,  and  boy-like  he 
took  his  revenge  later. 

Shortly  after  I  went  to  bed  and  before  I 

[   "8   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

had  put  out  my  lights,  while  I  was  quietly 
reading  for  lack  of  anything  new,  "  The 
Cloister  and  the  Hearth,"  and  finding  a  mean 
pleasure  in  Gerald's  description  of  Northern 
Germany  in  the  fifteenth  century,  —  sud- 
denly there  came  a  sharp  shot.  It  was  like  a 
pistol  right  under  my  window.  It  gave  me  a 
start.  I  sat  listening  —  hesitated  about  get- 
ting up,  but,  as  I  heard  nothing  more,  de- 
cided that  it  was  probably  some  one  return- 
ing from  Voisins  and  emptying  his  gun  en 
route.  So  I  laid  down  again,  and  thought 
no  more  about  it  until  I  heard  voices  in  the 
garden.  For  some  reason,  I  suppose  I  in- 
stinctively connected  them  with  that  shot,  and 
thinking  some  accident  might  have  happened, 
I  jumped  up,  and  put  on  my  wrapper  and 
slippers.  As  I  started  down  the  stairs  I 
heard  a  frightened  voice,  and  some  one 
began  to  pound  and  shouted,  "Madame  — 
oh,  Madame !  "  While  I  was  unbolting  the 
door  —  two  bolts  and  a  key  to  turn  —  I  rec- 
ognized Amelie's  voice  and  realized  that  she 
was  crying.  When  the  door  opened  she 
stared  at  me,  and  then  tumbled  into  the  room 
and  sat  right  down  on  the  floor,  and  there, 
behind  her,  was  Abelard  with  a  big  stick  in 
his  hand,  and  two  of  my  neighbours. 

"Oh,  Madame,"  sobbed  Amelie,  "what 
has  happened?  Didn't  you  hear  anything? 
Did  n't  you  hear  us  calling  you  ?  " 

I  said  yes,  that  I  had  heard  a  pistol  shot, 

[  129  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

and  that  I  supposed  I  had  heard  voices,  but 
that  I  paid  no  attention. 

"There  is  some  one  hanging  about  the 
house,"  said  Amelie.  "I  thought  you  had 
been  assassinated.  I  saw  some  one  with  a  lan- 
tern moving  about  in  front  of  the  house  after 
the  shot  was  fired.  I  woke  Pere.  Then  I 
thought  perhaps  it  was  you,  so  I  called  two 
or  three  times.  I  could  still  see  the  light,  but 
you  did  not  reply,  so  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  some  one  had  shot  you." 

"Well,  Amelie,"  I  said,  "if  there  is  some 
one  in  the  garden  we  '11  go  and  find  out  who 
it  is.  But  you  know  that  if  any  one  were 
here  to  do  harm  he  would  hardly  have  a 
lighted  lantern  in  a  place  that  can  be  seen  so 
far." 

Unluckily  I  laughed.  I  ought  to  have 
seen  how  upset  she  was.  But  I  only  realized 
it  afterward.  I  lit  my  own  lantern,  and  fol- 
lowed by  Abelard  with  his  big  stick  I  went 
out  in  the  garden  to  hunt  for  the  other  fellow 
with  the  lantern.  Naturally,  as  they  had 
come  through  the  front  garden,  I  went  round 
to  the  back  of  the  house.  I  knew  that  I 
should  not  find  any  one.  I  didn't.  But  as 
I  was  returning  to  the  front  door  I  saw,  roll- 
ing to  and  fro  on  the  ground,  impelled  by  the 
wind,  a  light.  I  leaned  over  it,  as  it  moved, 
and  saw  that  it  was  the  burning  fuse  of  a  big 
•petard  —  the  fuse  was  as  big  round  as  my 
wrist. 

[    130   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

It  was  fully  fifteen  minutes  since  I  had 
heard  it  explode,  and  it  was  still  burning 
brightly.  How  Amelie  ever  got  into  the 
garden  without  seeing  it  I  don't  understand. 
I  suppose  her  mind  was  so  fixed  on  finding 
the  mistress  shot  in  the  house  that  she  saw 
nothing  at  all.  The  explanation  was  per- 
fectly simple.  The  naughty  boy,  naughty-boy 
like,  had  sent  his  final  shot  over  the  hedge 
on  his  way  home,  with  the  excuse,  I  suppose, 
that  Madame  had  forbidden  him  because 
she  was  in  the  garden,  but  that  he  had  not 
been  forbidden  to  make  her  jump  in  her  bed. 

I  am  afraid  that  Amelie  felt  a  bit  silly 
when  it  was  all  over.  I  had  to  be  very  care- 
ful what  I  said  next  day  and  let  her  tell  her 
story  in  her  own  way.  I  took  a  neat  cold 
going  out  in  the  damp  air  with  nothing  on 
my  head  and  my  bare  feet  thrust  into 
slippers. 

I  hope  this  amuses  you.  I  feel  so  terribly 
let  down.  Do  you? 

I  'd  love  to  know  what  the  men  at  the 
front  said  when  the  news  came  that  it  was 
over  —  or  the  fighting  was.  I  have  had  only 
one  letter  since  the  armistice,  and  that  was 
written  a  few  days  before.  It  told  me  some- 
thing which  surprised  me  —  that  the  division 
to  which  the  writer  belonged  had  been  within 
twelve  miles  of  Brussels,  but  there  was  no 
word  to  hint  that  they  had  any  idea  that  the 
end  was  near. 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  think  of  them  all  today  as  cleaning  them- 
selves up,  getting  out  the  colors  and  moving 
in  marching  order  toward  the  Rhine.  How 
many  a  homesick  lad  who  is  crossing  that 
devastated  country  to  the  unspoiled  Rhine- 
land,  and  who,  in  the  terrible  days  of  the 
Argonne  Forest — forty-two  days  of  fight- 
ing—  must  often  have  thought  that  he  might 
never  see  the  little  old  United  States  again, 
will  be  whistling  under  his  breath: 
"  When  Johnny  comes  marching  home  again, 

hurrah  !     Hurrah  ! ' ' 

and,  although  his  back  is  turned  to  it,  think- 
ing to  himself  that  nothing  else  counts  — 
neither  hard  marches  nor  delays  —  so  long 
as  in  the  end  he  is  going  back  to  where  the 
home  fires  burn.  And  on  your  side  of  the 
water  how  many  women's  hearts  must  be 
waiting  for  the  last  news  from  the  Argonne 
and  the  final  list  of  casualties  which  will  tell 
them  whether, 

'"''When  Johnny  comes  marching  home" 
their  own  will  be  in  the  ranks,  or,  through 
proud  tears,  they  must  salute  the  returning 
heroes  and  rejoice  for  the  more  fortunate. 
Of  course,  to  millions  of  women  the  armistice 
meant  that  the  boys  they  had  bravely  offered 
had  never  been  called  into  action.  That  does 
not  alter  the  spirit  of  the  gift. 

I  have  been  busy  clearing  up  the  garden. 
I  wish  you  could  see  how  active  the  taupes 
are.  We  destroyed  over  twenty  of  their 

[   132   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

mounds  today  after  filling  the  holes  with 
briar  cuttings  to  wound  the  snouts  of  the 
burrowing  pest,  after  which  we  rolled  the 
lawn  and  hoped  for  the  best. 

It  is  bitterly  cold,  —  a  damp,  penetrating 
cold.  However,  our  boys  are  going  to  be 
more  comfortable,  and  they  have  escaped 
all  the  misery  of  winter  in  the  trenches.  I 
expect  those  who  are  to  guard  the  occupied 
country,  no  matter  how  long  they  remain 
under  arms,  will  live  in  comparative  luxury. 
That  is  a  comfort. 


[   133   ] 


IX 

November  26,  !Qi8 

THANKS  for  your  cable,  which  came  the 
very  day  after  I  mailed  my  long  armistice 
letter.  I  need  not  have  worried,  for  not  yet 
is  Othello's  occupation  gone.  I  reckon  that 
this  disaster  will  not  cease  being  an  open 
worry  during  your  life  or  mine,  and  that  we 
have  each  got  our  work  cut  out.  One  thing 
is  sure  —  if  I  want  to  keep  what  little  wits 
I  have,  I  must  cease  trying  to  solve  the  ter- 
rible dilemma  myself,  and  extend  to  the  un- 
fortunate ones  whose  job  it  is,  all  the  sym- 
pathy of  which  I  am  capable. 

As  to  what  I  am  going  to  do,  to  —  as  you 
put  it — "kill  time"?  Don't  you  worry  yet. 
First,  having  a  little  time  on  my  hands,  I 
occupied  it  with  having  a  kind  of  suppressed 
grippe  —  the  result  of  the  cold  of  which  I 
had  the  beginning  when  I  last  wrote  you. 
I  don't  imagine  it  is  the  real  Spanish  article. 
I  am  told  that  it  is  not  for  my  age.  Besides, 
I  am  immune  from  contagions.  Anyway,  if 
it  is,  unlike  murder,  it  will  not  out.  I  have 
none  of  the  usual  symptoms. 

Very   little   has    happened   here   since    I 

["  '34  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

wrote,  except  that  on  the  Sunday  after  the 
Armistice  —  that  was  November  17  — 
Couilly  had  a  solemn  service  in  memory  of 
les  enfants  de  Couilly,  morte  pour  la  Patrie. 
Don't  you  love  the  idea  of  calling  all  the 
dead  soldiers  "the  children"  of  the  Nation, 
and  France  their  mother?  All  over  the 
battle-fields  of  France  you  will  find  written 
on  the  crosses  that  mark  their  graves,  "En- 
fant de  France" 

The  ceremony  of  last  Sunday  was  very 
touching.  It  began  with  a  solemn  mass  for 
the  dead,  celebrated  by  our  parish  priest,  my 
very  good  friend,  Abbe  Segret,  in  the  his- 
toric church  on  the  highest  point  of  Couilly, 
turning  its  graceful  #pse  to  Pont-aux-Dames, 
where,  from  the  road,  one  gets  a  most  pic- 
turesque view  of  it. 

I  must  tell  you  that  while  this  church  is 
not  as  beautiful  as  the  one  at  La  Chapelle, 
a  little  further  up  the  valley  of  the  Grande 
Morin,  it  is  a  monument  historique,  and  any 
one  who  loves  old-time  church  architecture 
would  find  it  well  worth  seeing.  Its  founda- 
tions date  back  to  the  Eleventh  Century  — 
to  that  great  period  of  church-building  in 
which  man,  relieved  from  the  fear  of  the 
"  end  of  the  world,"  which  has  been  prophe- 
sied for  the  fin  de  slecle  just  passed,  sprinkled 
churches  as  thank-offerings  all  over  the 
landscape.  Like  so  many  of  those  built  at 
this  time  between  the  borders  and  Paris,  this 

[   135   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

church  was  partly  destroyed  by  Norman  in- 
vasion, to  be  rebuilt  in  the  twelfth  century, 
and  restored  at  various  times  during  the  fif- 
teenth and  sixteenth  centuries.  The  nave, 
as  it  stands  today  —  lofty  and  well-lighted 
—  dates  back  to  the  twelfth  century,  and 
the  roomy  aisles  to  the  various  periods  of 
the  Renaissance.  Unlike  so  many  parish 
churches  —  and  also  because  it  is  classed  as 
a  monument  historique  and  kept  in  order  by 
the  Beaux-Arts  —  there  is  nothing  tawdry 
about  it,  and  lovers  of  the  beautiful  can 
find  here  and  there  bits  of  quaint  carving 
and  touches  of  antiquity  which  are  rather 
interesting. 

But  if  you  had  been  here  that  Sunday,  I 
could  not  have  shown  any  of  those  things, 
as  the  whole  church  was  draped  in  black  as 
for  a  funeral  of  the  premiere  classe,  and  a 
catafalque  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  choir 
covered  with  flags  and  surrounded  by  tall 
candles. 

The  aspect  of  the  little  town  —  it  only 
counts  about  twelve  hundred  inhabitants  — 
was  that  of  a  great  funeral.  All  the  people 
climbing  the  winding  street  leading  to  the 
entrance  of  the  church,  perched  aloft  and 
looking  as  if  braced  to  prevent  it  from  slip- 
ping down  into  the  town,  were  dressed  in 
black,  —  the  French  love  that,  you  know, — 
widows  and  orphans  distinguished  by  their 
crepe,  for  in  France  no  one  can  mourn  except 

[   136  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

under  crepe,  —  they  even  put  it  on  tiny 
children.  Some  of  the  most  touching  calls 
for  aid  that  I  have  ever  heard  have  been 
from  refugiees  who  had  not  money  enough  to 
buy  even  the  bit  of  crepe  needed  for  the  neck 
and  wrists  of  a  dress  as  a  badge  of  mourn- 
ing. It  does  seem  trivial  to  us,  who  have 
outgrown  the  idea,  but  it  is  very  real  to 
them.  Of  course  they  don't  wear  it  every 
day,  only  on  ceremonious  occasions  like  going 
to  church.  Then  it  seems  to  them  impera- 
tive, for  without  their  bit  of  crepe  how  could 
one  know  they  mourned? 

The  little  church  has  a  very  good  pipe 
organ.  The  present  Cure  is  musical,  as  was 
his  predecessor,  and  a  young  Conservatory 
pupil  who  presides  at  the  organ  has  taste,  so 
that  part  of  the  service  was  really  fine. 

After  the  benediction  every  one  filed  out 
of  the  church  and  the  procession  formed  on 
the  little  square  in  front  of  it.  Then,  pre- 
ceded by  drums  and  fife,  behind  which 
marched  the  firemen  of  the  commune,  for 
lack  of  a  real  military  escort  the  widows  and 
orphans  took  their  places,  with  the  rest  of  the 
town  people  following  informally.  The  pro- 
cession wound  slowly  down  the  steep  hill  to 
the  little  public  park  on  the  bank  of  the 
Morin  in  which  stands  the  simple  monument 
to  the  honor  of  the  men  of  Couilly  who  fell 
in  1870. 

You  have  seen  these  funeral  processions 

[   137   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

passing  through  the  streets  in  France,  where 
even  the  unbelieving  and  the  most  radical 
still  salute  their  passing.  As  the  group  of 
mourners  turned  at  the  entrance  of  the  town 
into  the  route  nationale  toward  the  little 
park,  wagons  stopped  and  drivers  uncovered, 
and  from  a  military  automobile  an  officer  de- 
scended and  stood  at  attention  as  the  flag, 
with  its  knot  of  crepe,  went  by. 

The  square  had  been  all  cleaned  up  for  the 
occasion.  The  war  had  badly  damaged  it. 
Dozens  of  war  camions  have  dashed  into  its 
fence  in  the  last  four  years  and  completely 
wrecked  that,  and  made  big  breaches  in  the 
hedge  behind  it,  while  many  military  occupa- 
tions of  the  little  garden  had  quite  destroyed 
the  ordered  neatness  of  pre-war  days.  But 
that  had  all  been  tidied  up  as  well  as  a  week 
permitted.  The  simple  monument  was  cov- 
ered with  masses  of  green  branches  and  such 
flowers  —  mostly  dahlias  and  roses  —  as  the 
season  could  provide. 

The  mayor,  with  his  aids  about  him,  took 
his  place  before  the  monument.  The  fire- 
men, with  Sergeant  Louis  at  their  head, 
ranged  themselves  behind  him.  The  widows 
and  orphans  stood  in  a  semicircle  in  front  of 
him,  with  the  rest  of  us  behind  them. 

I  'd  like  to  send  you  that  little  discourse  — 
I  will  send  you  the  printed  copy,  but  I  Ve  not 
time  to  translate  it  —  it  is  too  long.  You 
know  that  it  has  been  said  that  all  the  French 

[  138  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

are  actors,  and  that  the  best  of  them  are  not 
on  the  stage.  I  often  feel  that  all  the  French 
are  orators  and  that  the  best  of  them  never 
mount  the  rostrum.  This  white-haired 
mayor  —  tall,  slight,  alert  —  was  a  simple 
man  of  the  people.  He  has  a  strange  sort  of 
distinction,  a  beautiful  manner,  and  he  speaks 
well  and  thinks  well  too,  for  what  he  says  is 
always  worth  hearing.  His  souvenirs  of  the 
days  of  the  mobilization,  his  pictures  of  the 
rising  here  in  the  defence  of  France,  and  his 
tribute  to  the  people  of  the  little  commune 
in  the  time  when  France  had  her  back  to  the 
wall,  were  simple  and  touching.  But  it  was 
the  end  of  the  discourse  —  his  tribute  to  the 
men  of  the  commune  who  would  never  re- 
turn—  that  these  people  had  come  out  to 
hear.  At  the  end,  and  it  was  a  moving 
tribute,,  he  addressed  himself  to  the  group 
of  mourners  before  him,  and  said:  "To  you, 
the  families  who  have  been  so  sorely  stricken, 
I  say,  *  Weep  no  more.'  Lift  up  your  heads 
in  noble  pride  in  remembrance  of  your  dear 
ones,  and  forget  them  not.  The  light  of 
their  glory  shall  shine  like  a  halo  about  your 
heads  and  those  of  your  children,  and  your 
children's  children,  and  assure  to  you  forever 
the  respect  of  your  neighbours.  In  the  name 
of  the  community  I  offer  you  on  this  great 
day  the  homages  of  a  sincere  sympathy. 
Five  la  France!" 

And   the   entire   assembly   responded   by 

[    139   1 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

the  cry  of  "  Vive  la  France!  Five  la  Re- 
publique!" 

The  dead  silence  which  followed  for  a 
moment  was  only  broken  by  a  few  sobs,  be- 
cause, quite  naturally,  when  the  mourners 
were  told  to  "  weep  no  more  "  they  burst  into 
tears. 

Then  the  drums  and  fife  played  "  Garde 
a  vous"  and  the  mayor  stepped  down,  and 
his  assistant  took  his  place,  while  Sergeant 
Louis,  with  his  casque  on  his  head,  stepped 
forward,  and  stood  to  the  front,  for  the  call- 
ing of  the  roll  of  the  dead.  As  each  name 
was  read,  the  sergeant,  standing  rigid  as  a 
statue,  brought  his  hand  to  salute,  and  in  a 
firm  voice  replied,  " Morte  pour  la  France" 

It  was  all  simple,  but  very  moving. 

That  ceremony  finished,  the  music  sounded 
" Aux  Champs"  and  all  the  children,  each 
holding  a  flag,  marched  around  the  monu- 
ment singing  "  La  Marseillaise,"  and  then 
the  procession  re-formed,  and,  still  headed 
by  the  music,  marched  to  the  cemetery  to 
decorate  the  only  soldier's  grave  there  is 
here  —  that  of  a  young  cyclist  of  the  26th 
Battalion  who  died  at  Couilly  on  a  hot  sum- 
mer day  when  his  division  stopped  there  to 
rest  during  an  advance,  from  jumping  over- 
heated into  the  Morin. 

Isn't  it  a  singular  comment  on  this  war  to 
think  that  here,  in  a  commune  which  has 
given  so  many  of  her  children  to  France,  the 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

only  soldier's  grave  should  be  that  of  a 
passer-by,  dead  of  an  accident?  It  is  equally 
significant  that  the  commune  should  have 
given  him  a  burial  of  great  pomp,  and  that 
his  grave  should  always  be  most  carefully 
tended,  and  is  a  sacred  spot  to  the  children, 
who  keep  fresh  flowers  upon  it.  To  many 
a  pious  hand  that  cares  for  it,  it  is  symbolic, 
and  the  bunches  of  flowers  brought  almost 
daily  are  often  in  memory  of  a  grave  "  out 
there  "  in  the  north,  or  of  one  of  those  sad 
mounds  on  the  cross  at  the  head  of  which 
are  the  words,  "Here  sleep  170  unknown 
French  soldiers." 

Even  when  the  children  had  redecorated 
the  grave  and  the  older  people  had  talked 
about  that  single  military  funeral,  they 
seemed  reluctant  to  separate.  So  they  all  es- 
corted the  mayor  to  his  house,  and  there,  be- 
fore his  door,  the  widows  and  orphans  lined 
up,  and,  in  real  French  funeral  fashion,  the 
people  of  the  community,  headed  by  the 
mayor,  passed  along  the  line  and  shook  each 
mourner  by  the  hand. 

All  these  ceremonies  are  dear  to  the 
French,  and  I  felt  sure  that  this  part  of  the 
affair  was  a  great  consolation  to  them. 

I  write  you  all  these  little  details,  which 
are  so  local,  because  they  are  so  characteris- 
tically French,  and  because  they  will  visual- 
ize for  you  the  sort  of  scene  which  is  taking 
place  all  over  France  in  these  first  days  after 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

the  fighting  is  done,  and  under  the  influence 
of  the  thought  which  grips  us  all :  "  There  is 
to  be  no  more  killing  —  let  us  bury  our 
dead." 

I  am  sure  that  all  through  the  ceremony 
I  was  not  the  only  one  whose  mind  was  ob- 
sessed by  another  picture  —  the  victorious 
armies  advancing,  with  bands  playing  and 
colors  flying,  toward  the  Rhine.  Perhaps 
that  idea  may  not  be  so  compelling  to  you 
who  have  never  had  to  see  how  armies  have 
advanced  and  retreated  in  this  war  with  all 
the  modern  improvements,  —  a  picture  so 
different  from  anything  that  used  to  be  con- 
veyed by  the  word  "  martial,"  and  in  which 
"  Rally  round  the  flag,  boys,  rally  once 
again"  has  become  obsolete  —  except  as  a 
symbol,  of  course.  For  all  I  know,  the  con- 
quering armies  may  be  approaching  the 
bridge  heads  on  the  Rhine  in  camions,  for 
one  of  the  things  which  modern  soldiers 
most  hate  is  walking.  But  my  imagination 
sees  them  marching  to  music  and  following 
the  flag. 

Do  you  know  that  in  spite  of  all  that  has 
been  written  about  this  war  I  met  a  girl  the 
other  day  who  still  thought  the  boys  from 
the  States  went  into  battle  with  colors  un- 
furled and  bugle  calls  sounding.  She  had 
never  even  heard  a  military  whistle. 

Don't  you  love  to  think  of  them  advancing 
toward  the  frontier,  with  no  battles  ahead, 

[    H2   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

or  being  carted  all  over  the  place  in  circular 
trips  toward  the  west  with  St.  Nazaire  and 
Bordeaux  ahead  of  them,  then  the  Atlantic, 
— then  home? 

I  had  a  letter  from  New  York  the  other 
day  from  a  woman  who  said  that  as  her  boy 
had  never  got  anywhere  near  the  front  she 
expected  him  home  at  once.  She  did  not 
seem  to  realize  that  it  took  a  year  to  bring 
them  over  with  England's  fleet  at  our  service, 
and  that  it  must,  naturally,  take  much  longer 
than  that  to  get  them  back. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  boys  never  needed 
our  sympathy  more  than  they  do  at  this 
minute.  With  all  the  glamour  of  war,  all 
the  tension  of  battles  and  danger  and  glory 
removed,  with  only  the  dull  routine  of  mili- 
tary discipline  and  the  monotonous  round 
of  military  duties  left,  with  home  waiting  for 
them  across  the  ocean  and  the  longing  to 
go  marching  back  haunting  them,  the  days 
will  be  dreary  for  some  of  them.  There  are 
a  million  of  them,  perhaps,  who  have  never 
seen  any  action.  They  have  given  up  a  year 
of  their  lives  to  camp  training,  and  have  not 
even  smelled  a  battle,  never  even  heard  a 
big  gun  except  in  artillery  exercise,  never 
known  anything  of  war  except  camp  life. 
Hundreds  of  them  have  worked  building 
roads  near  the  coast,  the  only  soldiering  they 
have  known  consisting  in  wearing  a  uniform. 
Naturally,  some  of  them  are  pretty  sore. 

r 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

You  ask  me  again  how  I  think  our  boys 
have  liked  it  over  here?  How  can  I  tell 
you?  Up  to  now  they  have  not  had  much 
chance  to  find  out  for  themselves.  I  doubt 
if  they  will  ever  really  know  before  they  get 
home,  and  personally,  I  believe  that  it  will 
take  them  some  time  after  they  are  back  in 
the  United  States  to  show  the  moral  and 
spiritual  marks  the  trip  has  put  on  them. 
They  show  the  physical  already  —  those  who 
have  stood  up  under  the  effort,  and  the  big 
majority  have.  The  trip  has  been  no  joy 
ride.  The  army  in  the  depots  has  been  some 
bored.  The  fighting  army  was  new  to  the 
discomforts  their  allies  had  borne  under 
much  more  trying  conditions  for  four  years, 
and  they  were  not  "in  it"  long  enough  to 
get  used  to  them.  But  I  assure  you  that  by 
the  time  the  boys  get  home  even  the  talk  of 
the  Argonne  Forest  will  seem  different  from 
what  it  does  today.  Time  will  have  softened 
the  recollection,  and  the  very  fact  that  they 
were  in  the  great  struggle  and  came  out  alive 
will  influence  their  memories  of  it  all.  Be- 
sides, "distance  lends  enchantment"  as  much 
to  the  past  as  to  the  future. 

I  am  afraid  that  many  will  go  back  with 
illusions  a  bit  shattered.  But  that  was  to  be 
foreseen. 

For  a  great  many  reasons  it  was  a  pity 
that  they  were  not  "in  it"  longer.  It  was 
no  joy  ride  to  the  fighting  army,  but  it  was 

[    144  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

and  still  is,  to  a  great  many  who  are  wearing 
the  uniform,  in  civil  work. 

I  had  a  boy  say  to  me,  just  before  the 
armistice,  when  the  end  was  in  sight,  in  his 
opinion :  "  Good  Lord !  Was  this  big  push 
all  the  Allies,  when  they  were  so  near  to  worn 
down,  needed  to  knock  the  Boches  out?  It 
is  only  taking  us  six  months  to  finish  them. 
What  will  they  think  of  us  by  and  by?" 

I  could  only  reply  that,  up  to  date,  I  had 
never  heard  them  saying  anything  but 
"  Thank  you,  Messrs.  Americans." 

Here  we  are  sitting  up  and  taking  notice 
in  a  more  personal  way  than  we  have  for 
many  a  long  day.  Living  is  costly.  We  are 
told  it  is  to  be  even  more  so.  I  suppose  that 
is  the  case  everywhere.  It  is  costing  me  just 
six  times  as  much  to  live  as  it  did  the  first 
few  months  I  was  here,  and  I  am  wondering 
if  the  cost  of  mere  existence  will  ever  drop 
back  to  what  we  used  to  call  "normal." 

It  is  cold,  but  I  am  very  comfortable,  as 
I  told  you  I  should  be.  So,  even  if  it  is  a 
hard  winter,  as  far  as  I  personally  am  con- 
cerned you  need  not  worry. 

I  have  learned  to  love  winter  here  as  well 
as  summer.  The  landscape  is  never  bare, 
and  the  naked  trees  have  even  more  character 
than  the  leaf-dressed  ones  of  summer.  Be- 
sides, the  panorama  is  even  more  varied  than 
in  summer,  and,  when  it  is  clear,  I  am  always 
discovering  a  new  hamlet  which  had  been 

[   145   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

hidden  in  the  foliage  at  other  seasons.  I  am 
getting  terribly  attached  to  the  soil.  Per- 
haps all  people  of  my  age  feel  the  same  way 

—  or  would  if  they  had  the  chance  to  find  it 
out.     Charles  Dudley  Warner  once  said  that 
the  fondness  for  the  ground  comes  back  to 
a  man  after  he  has  run  the  rounds  of  busi- 
ness, of  pleasure,  has  eaten  dirt  and  sown 
wild  oats,  drifted  about  the  world  and  taken 
the  wind  in  its  moods,  and  that  the  love  of 
the  ground  is  as  sure  to  come  back  to  him  as 
he  is  sure  to  go  under  the  ground  and  rest 
there.     I  am  sure  that  this  is  not  quite  right 

—  but  the  idea  is  there. 

We  heard  on  Monday  morning,  the  i8th, 
that  there  was  not  a  German  left  on  French 
soil,  except,  of  course,  the  prisoners.  That 
is  some  comfort. 


December  I,  1918 

I  HAVE  been  having  a  perfect  orgy  of 
going  up  to  Paris.  So  many  events  call  out 
to  me,  and  I  cannot  seem  to  resist  them. 
Normal  activity  helps  me  to  realize  that  it 
is  really  over,  and  to  feel  that  the  past  four 
years  have  been  a  nightmare  from  which  the 
world  must  try  to  wake  to  normal  life,  and 
that  I  must  wake  up  with  it. 

First,  I  felt  it  a  sort  of  national  duty  to  eat 
a  regular  American  Thanksgiving  dinner  on 
Thursday,  with  an  American  face  sitting 
opposite  to  me.  So,  being  bidden  to  Paris 
for  just  that,  I  accepted  and  went.  Then 
I  felt  that  I  simply  had  to  see  the  entrance 
into  the  city  of  the  first  of  the  victorious 
visiting  sovereigns,  King  George. 

Never  again  in  my  time,  perhaps  never  in 
any  time,  will  Paris,  or  any  other  city,  see 
such  scenes  of  historic  interest  as  are  begin- 
ning to  take  place  there  now.  I  felt  I  had 
to  look  on  at  the  first  of  the  pictures  which 
will  be  unrolling  there  for  months.  Talk 
about  the  excitement  of  a  great  drama  on  the 
mimic  stage,  with  the  curtain  rolling  up  and 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

down  between  star  actors  and  spectators !  It 
is  piffle  in  comparison  with  the  historical 
drama  disclosing  its  living  scenes  before  the 
eyes  of  the  favored  ones  in  Paris  today. 
Future  generations  may  re-live  these  days  in 
the  novels  and  dramas  of  coming  ages  and 
curse  or  bless  the  prominent  characters  in 
them  according  to  how  they  play  their  roles 
in  the  next  few  months.  But  I  shall  not  be 
here  to  see  what  the  poets  and  historians,  the 
play-makers  and  novelists  do  with  this  epoch 
when  time  shall  have  created  a  perspective 
and  permitted  a  proper  selection.  So  I  felt 
that  I  might  as  well  look  at  such  of  the  pass- 
ing show  as  came  easily  within  my  narrow 
range  of  vision.  It  is  not  likely  to  be  much. 
King  George  of  Great  Britain,  Emperor 
of  all  the  Indies,  and  his  sons  —  the  Prince 
of  Wales  and  the  Duke  of  York  —  chose 
Thanksgiving  Day  to  arrive,  so,  as  soon  as 
we  had  eaten  our  turkey  and  plum  pudding 
at  noon,  we  went  out  on  the  Avenue  du  Bois, 
only  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  house,  to 
see  the  royal  guests  pass  up  the  Avenue, 
from  the  station  at  the  Porte  Dauphine  on 
their  way  to  the  Palace  of  the  Ministry  of 
Foreign  Affairs,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Seine  (close  to  the  Chamber  of  Deputies), 
where  foreign  royalty  is  always  entertained. 
Their  route  took  them  up  the  Avenue  to  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe,  from  the  top  of  which 
only  two  months  ago  the  guns  of  the  defence 

[    H8   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

against  air  raids  were  viciously  barking, 
down  the  Champs-Elysees,  across  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde  and  over  the  river,  the  hand- 
somest and  most  popular  drive  Paris  can 
show. 

There  were  plenty  of  places  where  we 
might  have  gone  and  sat  in  a  window  to 
watch,  but  I  wanted  to  be  in  the  street,  and 
nearer  than  one  could  possibly  be  in  a  house ; 
the  avenues  are  so  very  wide.  As  our  end 
of  the  route  was  the  furthest  from  the  centre 
of  the  city  it  was  possible  to  be  there  and  not 
risk  being  crushed,  and  being  only  five  min- 
utes' walk  from  the  house,  it  was  easy  not 
only  to  get  there  but  also  to  get  back. 

So  we  strolled  on  to  the  Avenue,  paid 
two  francs  each  for  a  wooden  chair,  with 
a  deposit  of  another  franc  to  guarantee 
the  woman  letting  them  that  we  would 
not  put  them  in  our  pockets  and  carry 
them  home.  Then  we  found  the  best  place, 
fixed  our  chairs,  and  were  free  to  sit  down 
on  them  until  the  procession  came,  and 
then  climb  on  them  to  look  over  the  heads 
of  the  guard  and  the  people  standing  be- 
hind them.  As  for  me,  I  climbed  up  at 
once,  to  look  up  and  down  the  broad  avenue. 
It  was  a  beautiful  sight,  so  quiet,  so  dignified, 
so  exactly,  it  seemed  to  me,  what  the  sorely 
tried  capital  of  such  a  people  should  be, 
when,  although  the  fighting  has  stopped,  the 
war  is  not  yet  ended. 

[   149  ] 


It  was  a  grey  day.  Paris  is  usually  grey 
at  this  season.  A  fine  drizzle  was  falling, 
yet  few  people  put  up  their  umbrellas.  All 
along  the  way,  from  the  Porte  Dauphine  to 
the  great  arch,  on  both  sides  of  the  road, 
the  poiltis  were  standing  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der. As  far  as  my  eyes  reached  the  guard 
was  made  of  the  famous  Chasseurs  Alpins, 
known  to  you  as  the  "Blue  Devils" — each 
with  a  fourragere  on  his  left  shoulder,  a  posy 
in  his  rakishly  set  beret,  and  a  decoration  or 
two  on  the  left  breast  of  his  faded  overcoat. 
They  were  all  standing  at  ease,  joking  and 
laughing,  looking  so  fit,  and  there  was  not 
a  bronzed  face  among  them  that  was  not 
worth  studying.  I  very  much  doubt  if  it  is 
possible  to  find  anywhere  else  a  crowd  of 
common  soldiers  who  look  so  universally  in- 
telligent as  these  men.  One  had  only  to  see 
them  to  believe  all  the  tales  of  their  exploits. 

Every  house  along  the  line,  on  both  sides 
of  the  Avenue,  showed  English  and  French 
flags.  Here  and  there  along  the  way  were 
stands  of  the  colors  of  all  the  Allies.  There 
was  no  bunting,  nothing  to  conceal,  disfigure 
or  spoil  the  real  beauty  of  the  Avenue,  whose 
chief  decorations  that  day  were  the  soldiers 
outlining  it  with  the  crowd  behind  them, 
with  the  groups  massed  in  the  windows  fur- 
ther back  still. 

It  was  a  mild  day.  Every  window,  from 
basement  to  mansards,  stood  wide  open,  and 

[  150  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

windows  and  balconies  were  packed  with 
women  and  children.  There  were  compara- 
tively few  men,  but  I  suppose  that  further 
down  the  line,  nearer  the  centre  of  the  city, 
the  crowd  was  quite  different.  I  could  easily 
imagine,  for  example,  the  Champs-Elysees 
below  the  Ronde  Pointe,  with  its  border  of 
German  guns  of  every  calibre,  from  88's  to 
huge  trench  mortars.  They  must  have  made 
wonderful  vantage-points  from  which  to  see 
the  passing  show,  and  although  the  French 
do  not  want  any  king  in  theirs,  they  love  to 
gaze  at  them  as  well  as  any  race  I  know;  it 
is  pure  curiosity  plus  a  love  of  free  speech. 
The  French  have  a  gift  for  blague  and  few 
things  are  sacred  to  the  crowd.  If  it  had 
not  been  too  far  for  me  to  walk  I  should 
have  liked  to  see  the  Champs-Elysees  that 
day,  if  only  to  watch  the  crowd  mounted 
upon  these  cannon.  You  may  have  been  told 
by  American  correspondents  how  they  treat 
them,  and  how  they  drag  them  out  of  place, 
and,  on  occasion,  as  far  as  the  boulevard, 
and  how  Clemenceau  practically  encouraged 
them  with  the  information  that  there  were 
plenty  more  in  the  back  shop. 

It  was  a  quiet  crowd.  There  was  no  noise. 
There  were  few  of  the  bursts  of  laughter  one 
usually  hears  in  a  French  crowd.  People 
did  not  even  seem  to  talk  much.  There  was 
not  a  bit  of  gaiety.  So  as  I  stood  quietly  my 
memory  summoned  up  so  many  street  scenes 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  had  witnessed  in  Paris  from  the  first  great 
one  I  saw  when  Felix  Faure  was  buried  the 
winter  after  I  came. 

Then  I  remembered  one  that  we  had  seen 
together.  Do  you  remember  one  day,  when 
we  were  sitting  near  Ledoyen's,  after  lunch, 
and  saw  the  ex-Queen  of  Spain,  Isabella,  the 
grandmother  of  Alphonso,  passing  down  the 
Avenue  for  the  last  time,  on  her  way  to  the 
royal  tomb  in  the  Escurial  ?  Do  you  remem- 
ber that,  as  the  fourgon,  with  a  cavalry  es- 
cort thundering  and  clanking  about  it,  came 
down  the  hill  au  galop  (from  the  famous 
palace  on  the  Avenue  Kleber  —  on  the  site 
of  which  the  Hotel  Majestic  is  soon  to  house 
the  British  Peace  Commission  —  to  the  Gare 
d'Orleans)  hardly  any  one  walking  on  the 
Avenue  even  turned  to  look  at  it?  I  remem- 
ber that  you  remarked  that  day  that  she 
seemed  in  almost  as  great  a  hurry  to  get  out 
of  France  as  she  had  been,  years  before,  to 
get  out  of  Spain.  It  was  the  rapidest  thing 
in  the  way  of  a  funeral  that  I  had  ever  seen. 

But  all  this  is  a  far  cry  from  King  George's 
arrival. 

What  I  enjoyed  most  about  the  Thanks- 
giving Day  function  was  its  utter  lack  of  fuss. 

The  train  was  due  at  half-past  two.  Ten 
minutes  before  the  time,  the  presidential  car- 
riage, a  simple  victoria,  with  two  horses 
only,  just  like  any  private  turn-out,  passed 
slowly  down  the  Avenue.  There  was  not 

[  152  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

even  a  plqueur  as  in  the  old  days,  when  the 
President  of  the  Republic  could  not  go  to  the 
races  without  outriders  and  a  piqueur. 
Poincare  and  Clemenceau  acknowledged, 
smilingly,  the  polite  cheers  that  greeted  them 
— the  heartiest  enthusiasm  being,  of  course, 
for  the  "Tiger,"  whose  time-worn  old  face, 
though  it  looked  tired,  had  still  that  lusty  ex- 
pression of  vitality  which  has  kept  him  up 
so  well  in  the  gigantic  task  of  holding  France 
in  leash.  His  formidable  white  moustache 
bristled,  his  eyes  shone,  he  looked  alive  with 
energy,  this  man  of  seventy-eight,  who  has 
carried  a.  burden  which  might  well  have  stag- 
gered a  younger  person.  I  suppose  no  finer 
thing  can  be  said  of  a  man  than  that  he  has 
"  deserved  well  of  his  country,"  and  surely 
no  one  could  ask  a  better  fate  than,  at  the 
end  of  his  life,  after  a  varied  and  stormy 
career,  having  well  outlived  his  allotted 
"  three  score  and  ten,"  to  have  met  his  great- 
est days  and  successfully  steered  his  country's 
ship  through  the  breakers. 

As  I  looked  after  the  carriage,  making  its 
way  by  the  cheers  and  waving  handkerchiefs, 
there  came  into  my  mind  a  picture  of  him  as 
he  stood  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  only 
seventeen  days  before  on  that  historic  nth 
of  November,  closing  the  war,  which  had 
been  inaugurated  there  with  the  memorable 
phrase,  "Lift  up  your  hearts,  and  long  live 
France,"  with  the  equally  unforgettable 

[   153   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

words,  on  that  day  punctuated  by  the  can- 
nons of  victory :  "  Honour  to  our  noble  dead. 
Thanks  to  them,  France,  —  yesterday  the  sol- 
dier of  God,  today  the  soldier  of  Humanity, 
shall  be  tomorrow  the  soldier  of  the  Ideal." 
I  wonder,  now.  Don't  you? 

However,  it  was  a  nice  picture  of  the  great 
old  man.  I  saw  a  drawing  of  him  in  his  atti- 
tude at  the  climax  of  the  phrase,  with  his 
arms  lifted  straight  in  the  air  above  his  head, 
one  of  his  most  familiar  gestures  when  he  is 
in  the  tribune  and  excited. 

You  see  how  my  mind  wanders,  writing  to 
you.  You  can  guess  how  it  wandered  as  I 
stood  on  the  chair  that  day  waiting  for  King 
George  to  pass. 

It  was  amusing  to  see  how  every  one 
jumped  at  the  first  boom  of  the  royal  salute. 
Then  every  one  laughed  heartily.  It  was 
the  first  laughter  of  the  afternoon.  One 
does  not  recover  at  once  from  the  days  when 
that  sound  was  a  menace.  It  was  exactly 
two  months  to  a  day  since  the  last  air  raid. 
I  seem  to  have  forgotten  all  about  them,  but 
I  know  people  who  still  dream  of  them. 

As  soon  as  the  salute  began  there  was  a 
movement  along  the  line.  From  the  officers 
in  front  came  a  grunt,  followed  by  another 
one,  —  "Porte  —  armes!"  I  supposed  it  to 
be,  as  it  was  followed  by  the  shuffle  of  thou- 
sands of  feet  as  the  soldiers  drew  their  heels 
together,  and  then  the  movement  of  thou- 

[    154  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

sands  of  hands  on  their  rifles  as  they  shifted 
arms,  and  the  officers  wheeled,  each  fist  hold- 
ing a  sword  in  front  of  each  chin. 

Then  the  little  cortege  slowly  trotted  up 
the  Avenue  —  only  a  line  of  mounted  police 
leading  the  way,  followed  by  King  George  in 
campaign  uniform,  sitting  on  the  right  of 
Poincare,  then  a  carriage  containing  the 
Prince  of  Wales  and  the  Duke  of  York,  with 
Clemenceau  facing  them  —  the  protocol 
being  still  place  aux  princes,  even  when  they 
are  kids.  A  few  carriages  containing  gov- 
ernment people  and  officers,  —  French  and 
British,  —  followed  by  a  line  of  mounted 
police,  and  it  was  over.  It  had  not  taken 
five  minutes  for  them  to  pass.  Then  we 
climbed  down  from  our  chairs  and  went 
home. 

The  next  day,  by  accident,  I  saw  the  same 
little  cortege  pass  through  the  Place  de 
1'Opera  on  its  way  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 
I  happened  to  be  there,  and  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  gaze  down  on  the  scene  from  an 
upper  balcony  overlooking  the  Place.  I  got 
there  the  same  impression  of  great  dignity 
which  I  had  received  the  day  before. 

The  great  square  was  empty.  The  en- 
trances to  it  —  six — were  closed  by  cavalry. 
The  wide  avenues  were  lined  with  poilus. 
The  sidewalks  were  packed.  The  windows 
and  balconies  were  full.  The  time  of  wait- 
ing was  gayer  than  it  had  been  the  day  be- 

[  155  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

fore  —  the  difference  between  a  residential 
and  a  business  district.  Women  and  chil- 
dren in  the  balconies  rained  down  chocolate, 
cigarettes,  and  now  and  then  flowers  upon 
the  soldiers,  and  there  were  constant  ripples 
of  laughter  and  the  little  cries  which  I  had 
missed  the  day  before.  Now  at  one  point, 
.now  at  another,  a  soldier  would  rush  out 
into  the  street  to  catch  or  rescue  or  struggle 
for  the  falling  prizes,  until  a  sharp  command 
ran  along  the  line  and  cavalry  mounted  and 
soldiers  came  rigidly  to  "  attention."  Then 
the  little  cortege  —  with  only  a  line  of 
mounted  police  as  escort  —  passed.  From 
our  lofty  station  the  carriages  looked  like 
toys,  as  they  slowly  crossed  the  wide  square, 
—  the  King  and  the  Prince  of  Wales  in 
khaki,  and  the  Duke  of  York  in  a  naval 
uniform,  and  Poincare  holding  his  silk  hat 
most  of  the  time  in  his  hand.  It  was  all 
democratic  enough,  considering  that  it  was 
the  king  of  a  great  nation  in  a  foreign 
capital. 

I  am  going  to  Paris  next  week  to  see  the 
King  and  Queen  of  Belgium.  There  are  no 
figures  in  this  war  of  whom  I  more  ardently 
desire  to  get  a  personal  impression  than  those 
rulers  of  the  brave  people  who  so  unhesitat- 
ingly sacrificed  themselves  to  make  victory 
finally  possible.  I  hope  it  will  never  be  for- 
gotten that  but  for  the  stand  Belgium  took 
so  quickly,  the  German  hordes  would  have 

[  156  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

swept  to  the  Channel  in  August,  1914, — 
and  to  Paris. 

The  final  result  might  have  been  the  same, 
for  there  was  always  the  British  fleet  to  be 
considered,  but,  destroyed  as  France  is  now, 
she  would,  without  Belgium's  stand,  have 
been  more  so.  Speculations  are  stupid. 
Things  are  as  they  are.  Still  it  is  certain 
that  more  fought  in  this  war  than  men  and 
guns  and  science.  Horrible  as  it  has  been, 
it  might  have  been  worse.  That  idea  comes 
back  to  me  so  often  in  these  days,  when  it 
is  presumably  over,  and  yet  all  so  abiding  in 
our  hearts  with  its  years  of  uncertainty  and 
pain.  I  suppose  that  you  are  convinced,  as 
I  am,  that  if  war  is  to  be,  we  must  accept 
the  theory  that  those  who  fight,  since  fight 
they  must,  must  fight  to  win,  and  have  (war 
being  permissible)  the  right  to  use  every 
weapon  they  have  or  can  find  or  can  create. 
Isn't  it  a  sort  of  sad  comfort  to  feel  that 
Germany  did  all  that  with  devilish  ingenuity 
and  without  a  scruple,  and  was  still  defeated? 

The  world  has  got  to  find  another  way 
out  of  the  dilemma  if  the  majority  of  the  na- 
tions have  reached  a  plane  of  development 
on  which  they  no  longer  want  to  fight.  But 
have  they?  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  When 
man  got  above  avenging  his  personal  wrongs 
with  his  own  hand  he  created  a  police  force 
and  public  courts.  Neither  has  prevented 
murder.  But  they  have  decreed  its  punish- 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

ment  —  not  always  justly  or  in  proper  pro- 
portions, but,  at  any  rate,  personal  murder 
went  out  of  fashion.  There  were  times  in 
man's  history  when  an  heroic  murder  was 
rather  admired.  Today  no  well-regulated 
family  really  cares  to  count  any  kind  of  mur- 
derer among  its  members.  Perhaps  even  the 
O'Flaherties  no  longer  pride  themselves  on 
the  days  when  they  used  to  hear  in  the  litany, 
"  From  the  ferocious  O'Flaherties,  Good 
Lord,  deliver  us."  Yet  they  were  Irish. 
Who  knows?  It  may  be  that  Germany  has 
put  war  out  of  fashion.  It  has  surely  put  it 
out  of  fashion  to  be  German  —  witness  the 
great  number  of  people  of  German  origin, 
from  King  George  down,  who  have  sloughed 
off  their  German  names. 

I  am  going  to  set  it  right  down  quick  — 
to  save  you  from  the  danger  of  making  un- 
pleasant remarks  —  that  I  am  no  believer  in 
any  League  of  Nations,  except  as  a  cause  for 
more  wars,  any  more  than  I  am  an  advocate 
of  the  abolition  of  military  service.  We 
may  have  reached  a  time  when  we  can  safely 
shelve  the  maxim,  "  We  should  provide  in 
peace  what  we  need  in  war."  I  don't  know. 
But  I  do  know  that  fashions  are  often 
resurrected. 

I  came  back  from  Paris  yesterday.     I  left 
in  a  rain  storm,  but  the  sun  came  out  to  wel- 
come me.     I  found  my  house  in  "  apple-pie 
order"     (by    the    way,    what    is    apple-pie 
[    158   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

order?).  A  big  fire  was  roaring  in  the  new 
brick  chimney,  and  Amelie  was  full  of  stories 
about  the  beasties.  We  Ve  three  new  kittens 
—  Ninette,  Rantintin,  and  Rhadadhu  (I 
can't  spell  that,  but  it  looks  picturesque  and 
pronounceable  that  way).  They  are  winter 
kittens,  and  Amelie  says  that  "  winter  kittens 
are  hard  to  raise."  But  they  flourish  and 
make  the  nicest  topics  of  conversation.  I 
don't  know  how  we  should  get  along  if  it  were 
not  for  the  cats.  Khaki  does  not  love  them 
as  much  as  we  do.  He  smells  them  over  and 
then  retires  some  distance  and  spits.  He 
knows  it  is  naughty,  for  the  moment  he  spits, 
he  runs  away. 

Luckily  Amelie  and  I  agree  on  politics. 
The  house  would  be  unlivable  if  we  did  not, 
for  she  is  at  once  violent  and  picturesque  in 
her  language.  The  other  day  she  got  fussed 
with  Dick,  who  wanted  to  play  when  she  was 
not  in  the  humour,  and  I  heard  her  explode 
with:  "Va-t-on,  bolchevikf"  When  I  pro- 
tested, she  replied :  "  Well,  I  ask  you  — 
just  look  at  him,  with  his  bushy  head  of 
hair.  He  looks  just  like  one  of  the  frowzy 
devils." 

You  see,  we  none  of  us  here  are  socialists. 
Very  few  farmers  are.  Amelie  comes  near 
expressing  the  universal  feeling  when  she 
says :  "  We  were  happier  in  the  old  times. 
We  earned  less  and  needed  less.  All  I  ask 
is  plenty  of  work  and  bread.  We  used  to 

[   159  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

have  both,  and  we  had  contentment.  That's 
all  gone." 

It  is  a  big  question,  isn't  it  —  this  sowing 
of  "  noble  discontent  "  and  reaping  disorder? 
It  will  never  be  the  proletariats  who  can  clean 
up  the  business  and  re-sow  the  seeds  of  future 
happiness  in  the  world,  which,  so  far  as  I  can 
see  ahead,  is  likely  to  know  little  happiness 
in  what  remains  of  life  to  me. 

I  shall  not  stay  at  home  long.  The  Bel- 
gian sovereigns  arrive  Thursday  —  that  will 
be  the  5th.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  what  you  are 
thinking.  I  am  going  up  a  week  later,  to 
look  on  President  Wilson.  He  is,  after  all, 
our  chief  executive  —  the  head  of  the  gov- 
ernment in  the  country  where  I  was  born  and 
of  which  I  am  proud.  It  is  the  sporting 
chance  with  us  Americans  that  we  must 
accept  the  leadership  of  the  maji  the  majority 
elects,  so  long  as  he  remains  in  power,  as 
gracefully  as  possible.  I  shall  surely  never 
live  to  see  another  president  of  the  United 
States  pack  his  grip,  order  his  carriage,  and 
without  a  "  by  your  leave "  to  the  people 
who  turned  him  from  an  unimportant  politi- 
cal schoolmaster  to  the  chief  of  one  of  the 
four  big  powers,  cross  the  ocean  to  arrogate 
to  himself  work  usually  entrusted  to  men  of 
international  reputation.  Of  course  he  may 
be  setting  a  fashion  which  will  survive,  but 
even  so,  he  will  still  be  the  first  who  ever  did 
the  strange  deed  for  which  the  constitution 

[    1 60  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

has  no  brake.  So,  at  least,  I  might  as  well 
look  at  him. 

I  have  seen  but  one  president  during 
his  term  of  office — Abraham  Lincoln.  I 
remember  that  as  if  it  were  yesterday  —  or 
I  think  I  do.  I  must  have  been  about  eleven. 
I  imagine  —  I  can't  be  sure  —  that  it  was 
just  before  his  second  inauguration,  and  so 
not  long  before  he  was  assassinated.  It  was 
at  the  old  St.  James  Hotel,  which  at  the  time 
I  left  Boston,  in  1898,  was  occupied  by  the 
Conservatory  of  Music.  I  can  remember 
looking  up  in  his  worn  face,  as  he  bent  his 
tall,  loose  figure  to  speak  to  me.  The  face, 
the  ungraceful  figure,  the  bony  hand,  are  as 
vivid  to  me  today  as  the  day  I  looked  into 
his  eyes  and  told  him  my  name,  —  or  I  think 
they  are.  But  it  may  be  because  all  those 
things  have  been  so  familiarized  to  me  in 
books  and  portraits.  My  father  had  told 
me  that  I  must  never  forget  that  I  had  seen  a 
very  great  man.  I  never  did. 

So  I  am  going  up  to  look  at  Wilson  — who 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  very  first  international 
socialist  who  has  arrived  in  the  chair  of  a 
ruler  of  a  nation.  I  have  as  yet  seen  no  sign 
that  in  the  States  he  is  recognized  as  an  in- 
ternational socialist,  but  the  party  in  Europe 
seems  to  have  noticed  it,  and  considering  the 
fact  that  the  United  States  of  America  has, 
as  I  have  told  you  before,  got  Europe  hypno- 
tized, and  that  Wilson  means  to  them  the 

[   161   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

people  of  the  nation  whose  help  has  been  so 
opportune  for  the  Allies,  and  whose  wealth, 
power  and  comparative  immunity  from  war 
disasters  make  them  so  imperatively  neces- 
sary to  the  welfare  and  reconstruction  of  the 
war-worn  nations,  you  cannot  deny  that  there 
are  grounds  for  grave  anxiety  here  already. 


[   162  ] 


XI 

December  8,  1918 

WELL,  dear  girl  —  I've  been  to  Paris 
again.  I  Ve  seen  King  Albert  and  his  lovely 
Queen,  and  I  wish  I  could  invent  some  new 
adjectives.  It  was  one  of  the  most  satis- 
factory sensations  I  ever  had. 

Of  course  the  entrance  into  Paris  was  only 
a  repetition  of  the  arrival  of  King  George 
of  which  I  wrote  you  last  week,  except  that 
Madame  Poincare  rode  up  the  avenue  to  the 
station  with  the  French  President,  and  rode 
back  with  Queen  Elizabeth.  It  was  the  same 
kind  of  crowd,  and  we  saw  the  cortege  come 
slowly  up  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne 
from  the  same  point  where  we  had  stood  to 
see  the  British  King. 

King  Albert  in  his  field  uniform,  sensitive- 
looking  and  so  manly,  saluted  the  cheering 
crowd  with  visible  diffidence  —  and  then 
came  Queen  Elizabeth!  How  I  did  wish 
that  you  were  standing  beside  me.  I  have 
seen  many  a  charming  woman,  but  it  is  a 
long  time  since  I  have  seen  one  so  altogether 
adorable  as  this  war  queen  of  the  Belgians. 
Her  smiling,  sympathetic  face  turned  with 

[   163   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

such  frank  pleasure  to  acknowledge  the  greet- 
ings of  the  crowd;  her  expression  was  so 
noble,  so  absolutely  devoid  of  anything  ap- 
proaching affectation,  that  I  could  not  help 
feeling  that  it  was  a  fine  thing  for  a  people  to 
have  such  a  queen.  My  heart  went  right  out 
to  her,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  every  one's 
did,  and  I  felt  absolutely  satisfied.  I  could 
only  hope  that  in  this  work-a-day  world  the 
Belgians  appreciate  their  luck  in  having  such 
a  King  and  Queen  to  inspire  loyalty,  to  be  led 
by,  to  look  up  to,  and  to  adore. 

Of  course  I  realize  that  the  glamour  of 
romance  hangs  round  these  two.  They  are 
both  young  and  good-looking.  It  fell  to 
King  Albert  to  make  the  first  great  chival- 
rous gesture  of  the  war,  and  nobly  to  dare 
extermination  for  honour's  sake,  and  to  his 
Queen,  who  has  taken  an  ever-active  part  in 
the  actual  warfare,  to  repudiate,  in  choosing 
the  cause  of  right,  her  native  country  and  the 
family  from  which  she  sprung. 

I  suppose  you  will  ask  me  if  she  is  pretty. 
Really  I  can't  tell  you.  To  me  she  was  beau- 
tiful, and  looked  as  I  felt  a  Queen  should, 
but  as  they  too  rarely  do,  except  on  the  stage. 
I  could  not  even  have  told  you  whether  the 
enthusiasm  was  great  or  not.  However,  the 
very  next  day  one  of  my  friends  said  to  me : 
"  If  the  royalties  think  they  have  had  a  great 
reception  in  Paris,  I  can't  help  wishing  they 
had  heard  New  York  receiving  Joffre  or  the 

[    164  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Blue    Devils.      Why,    you    could    hear   the 
cheering  from  the  Battery  to  the  Park!  " 

That  was  really  none  of  my  affair,  except 
that  I  was  glad  Papa  Joffre  got  a  rousing 
reception  at  a  time  when  I  am  sure  it  cheered 
his  fine  old  heart.  There  was  no  need  for 
me  to  take  up  the  cudgels.  But  I  am  afraid 
that  I  did,  though  I  regretted  it  afterward. 
Of  course  no  one  questions  that,  in  the  States, 
when  they  undertake  to  make  a  noise,  they  win 
out  over  all  comers.  We  are  a  deep-throated 
people.  I  am  confident,  for  example,  that 
nowhere  else  in  the  world  do  artists  get  any 
such  tumultuous  applause  as  they  get  in  the 
American  theatres,  and  I  have  seen  most  of 
the  great  first  performances  in  Paris  from 
the  Exposition  Year  to  the  War.  Besides, 
New  York  received  Joffre  before  we  came 
to  be  actually  engaged  in  the  war,  and  the 
streets  of  the  city  were  packed  with  husky 
men. 

Here  in  Paris,  the  capital  of  a  country 
which  has  been  fighting  for  four  years  on  its 
own  soil,  and  which  has  lost  in  that  fight 
one  eighteenth  of  its  entire  population,  and 
one  fourth  of  its  strength  in  mature  men, 
the  crowd  is  largely  made  up  of  women  and 
children,  and  I  know  how  ineffective  the 
cheers  of  the  groups  around  me  were  and 
how  ill  their  voices  carried.  Besides,  these 
royal  processions  are  very  modest  affairs. 
Paris  is  not  going  to  do  her  utmost  until  the 

[   165   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

poilus  come  marching  back,  and  she  will  not 
spoil  the  glamour  of  that  great  day  by  an- 
ticipating it  in  any  way.  Also  on  both  the 
days  when  royalty  came  a-visiting,  all  along 
the  five  miles  of  road  over  which  they  passed, 
there  stood,  on  either  side  of  their  route,  a 
close  rank  of  deep-throated  soldiers,  who 
could  have  made  the  air  ring  with  shouts, 
each  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  his  eyes 
fixed  front,  silent  and  motionless  as  a  statue, 
or  with  a  sabre,  grasped  in  his  fist  at  his  chin, 
held  in  front  of  his  nose. 

I  suppose  that  I  felt  needlessly  nettled 
that  the  sincerity  of  a  reception  should  be 
gauged  by  its  volume  of  sound,  and  yet  I 
could  not  help  remembering  the  significant 
fact  that  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  enthusiastic 
as  was  the  reception  of  the  Americans,  it  was 
their  own  poilus  that  got  the  French  crowd. 

One  more  trip  to  Paris  to  see  the  city  re- 
ceive Wilson,  and  then  I  am  done.  I  like 
well  enough  just  now  to  do  these  little  polite 
duties.  It  is  not  only  that  I  shall  never  see 
such  things  again,  but  here  all  my  neighbours 
like  to  hear  about  it,  and  many  of  them  have 
never  been  to  Paris.  Of  course  they  read 
about  it  in  the  papers.  But  hearing  me  tell 
about  it  seems  different. 

Still,  it  is  terribly  hard  work  for  me,  and 
I  get  very  tired.  In  the  first  place,  the  trains 
are  slow  and  crowded.  Then  in  Paris  it  is  a 
tedious  thing  to  get  any  kind  of  a  conveyance 

[   166  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

for  crossing  the  city.  If  I  have  only  a  small 
dressing-case  I  cannot  carry  it  far  myself, 
and  there  is  rarely  a  time  when  I  am  not 
forced  to  have  something  more  in  the  way 
of  baggage.  Taxi-autos  are  rare.  I  simply 
cannot  struggle  for  one  myself.  You  could 
not,  energetic  as  you  are.  Some  one  else  has 
to  do  that  for  me.  Luckily  in  years  like 
these  one  gets  to  be  known  by  the  regular 
porters  at  the  station,  and  my  white  hair  gets 
me  some  consideration.  Amelie  contends 
that  it  is  my  eternal  smile.  I  don't  think  it 
is  as  fixed  as  that,  but  it  may  be.  If  I  were  to 
be  absolutely  honest  I  suppose  I  should  own 
that  it  was  all  these  things  —  plus  something 
I  hold  in  my  hand,  and  which  does  not  go  into 
the  cab  with  me,  when  I  get  it,  —  a  fact 
perhaps  as  well  known  to  the  station  porter 
as  my  white  hair  and  my  smile. 

I  often  wish  you  could  see  me  waiting 
patiently  on  the  terrace  when  the  train 
arrives,  for  I  have  learned  patience  in  these 
years,  good-natured  patience.  The  station 
courtyard  is  a  great  sight.  The  big  crowd,  — 
soldiers  carrying  heavy  packs,  men  carrying 
valises,  porters  with  trunks  on  their 
shoulders,  and  women  with  bags,  all  rush 
out  like  ants  from  a  hill.  There  is  never  a 
waiting  cab  in  the  court.  The  only  hope  is 
to  be  able  to  grab  one  entering  the  gate  to 
discharge  a  passenger.  So  soldiers  drop 
their  packs,  men  their  valises,  porters  their 

[   167   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

trunks,  and,  with  the  boys  always  waiting  to 
earn  a  few  sous,  they  all  dash  for  the  street 
in  the  hope  of  intercepting  a  taxi.  When 
one  comes  through  the  gate  it  is  escorted  by 
a  running,  yelling  mob.  On  either  side  a 
man  has  mounted  on  the  running-board,  with 
his  hand  on  the  door  handle,  and  the  crowd 
is  bidding  as  at  an  auction.  The  miserable 
passenger  inside  has  simply  to  fight  to  get 
out,  and  while  he  is  settling  up,  at  least  two 
people  have  got  into  the  cab  and  are  fighting 
inside.  Then  the  chauffeur  has  to  decide 
which  one  he  will  take,  and  it  becomes  a 
question  of  the  shortest  and  easiest  course 
and  the  biggest  tip.  The  police  turn  their 
backs,  unless  called  for,  —  and  neither 
chauffeur  nor  disputing  clients  care  for 
their  aid.  They  can  settle  better  without 
it.  They  know  that  he  will  have  no  sym- 
pathy with  the  big  tipping  —  it  is  his  busi- 
ness not  to.  So  they  prefer  to  dispense  with 
him.  What  with  tipping  the  porter  who 
fights  for  you,  and  the  bidding  with  a  tip  to 
seduce  the  chauffeur,  one  rarely  gets  off  with- 
out paying  the  value  of  a  dollar  and  a  half 
over  and  above  the  fare  registered  on  the 
metre  for  the  trip,  which  is  itself  about 
double  what  it  used  to  be  before  the  war  tariff 
came  in.  So  you  see  that  it  is  today  just 
about  as  expensive  to  get  about  in  Paris  as 
it  used  to  be  in  New  York.  It  is  a  far  cry, 
isn't  it,  from  the  old  days,  when  cab-riding 
[  168  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

in  Paris  was  so  cheap?  I  ask  myself  some- 
times if  Paris  will  ever  again  be  the  Paradise 
of  the  respectable  person  of  taste  and  small 
means?  I  am  afraid  not.  Today  with  butter 
at  two  dollars  a  pound,  coffee  at  a  dollar  and 
a  half,  the  outlook  is  not  cheering.  One  can 
only  say,  "  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  cost 
thereof"  —  so  long  as  one  can  get  the 
wherewithal  to  put  something  into  one's 
mouth ! 


[   169   ] 


XII 

December  15,  igi8 

I  THINK  I  told  you  in  my  last  letter  that 
I  should  go  up  to  Paris  to  honour  the  People 
of  the  great  United  States  by  looking  at  their 
elected  chief  as  he  rode  through  the  streets 
to  the  acclamations  of  the  crowd.  I  went. 
It  was  a  great  day  for  Wilson,  I  assure  you. 
We  had  planned  to  follow  our  usual  pro- 
gramme,—  buy  our  chairs  on  the  Avenue 
du  Bois  and  stand  on  them.  We  started  out 
calmly,  never  for  a  moment  supposing  that 
what  was  perfectly  easy  when  kings  were 
passing  might  be  less  so  when  the  great 
democrat  came.  You  may  imagine,  if  you 
can,  our  stupefaction  on  arriving  one  block 
from  the  Avenue  to  find  the  way  barred  and 
guarded  by  the  police,  and  through  that  bar- 
rier none  but  soldiers  or  people  who  had 
tickets  could  pass.  As  such  a  dilemma  had 
not  occurred  to  us,  we  naturally  had  no 
tickets.  That  was  a  fix. 

Looking  over  the  barriers  down  the  streets 
leading  to  the  Avenue,  we  could  see  the 
khaki-clad  backs  of  American  soldiers  lining 
the  edge  of  the  roadway.  It  looked  as  if  the 
entire  American  Army  had  turned  out. 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Groups  were  still  passing,  and  in  front  of 
the  barriers,  women  and  children  were  vainly 
trying  to  get  through,  while  huge  camions 
full  of  lads  in  khaki  were  continually  going 
along  the  driveway  above  the  Avenue  in  the 
direction  of  the  railway  station. 

I  asked  a  policeman  where  on  the  route  the 
way  was  open,  and  he  said  "  on  the  Champs- 
Elysees."  But  that  was  too  long  a  walk  for 
me,  especially  as  Wilson's  route  would  be 
different  from  that  taken  by  royal  visitors. 
The  presidential  family  is  not  being  put  up 
at  the  Government  Palace,  which  receives 
royal  visitors,  but  is  occupying  the  Prince  de 
Murat's  private  house,  —  palatial  enough,  in 
the  smart  Monceau  quarter  of  the  city, — 
and  there  was  no  knowing  whether  or  not  we 
could  pass  the  Avenue  Malakoff  without 
making  a  wide  detour. 

I  was  rather  inclined  to  give  it  up  —  you 
know  how  I  hate  a  crowd.  Not  so  my 
companion. 

All  the  streets  near  the  barriers  were 
crowded.  Down  the  middle  of  the  streets 
the  uniformed  boys  from  home  were  walk- 
ing along  leisurely,  and  she  accosted  a  group 
of  them  to  see  if  they  could  not  get  us 
through.  They  are  always  delighted  to  talk 
to  anyone  who  speaks  English,  especially  a 
woman,  and  white  hair  helps.  I  expect  it 
makes  them  think  of  "  mother."  The  first 
one  she  addressed,  explaining  the  situation, 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

said  cheerily:  "Come  on,  let's  try  it  I  can 
go  through,  and  perhaps  I  can  take  you  two 
with  me." 

So  he  pushed  a  way  through  the  crowd 
and  cornered  the  nearest  policeman.  The 
first  time  it  did  not  go.  But  the  boy  from 
home  did  not  desert  us.  He  simply  led  us  a 
little  further  up  the  street  to  a  point  where 
the  barrier  was  less  crowded,  explaining  that 
we  were  his  "  mother  and  aunt."  The  police- 
man looked  around,  winked  an  eye,  turned 
his  back,  saying  "  passez  vite"  and  we 
slipped  through,  only  to  find  another  barrier 
at  the  edge  of  the  broad  walk  which  pro- 
hibited us  from  approaching  the  roadway. 
But  with  a  little  patience  we  finally  passed 
that.  Looking  back  we  could  see  the  crowds 
packed  about  the  ends  of  the  streets  behind 
the  barriers,  mostly  women  and  children. 
Looking  up  and  down  the  Avenue,  edged 
with  poilus,  we  saw  people  massed  behind 
them,  mostly  men  in  uniform  —  there  were 
few  women. 

Along  the  wide  path,  behind  the  crowd, 
everything  was  animated.  Students  were 
everywhere,  each  with  some  insignia  of  class 
or  club.  They  marched  and  countermarched, 
shouting  and  singing  and  joking,  blocking 
the  way  to  the  few  foot  passers  who  were 
hurrying  to  some  special  point.  They 
massed  and  unmassed  and  remassed,  and 
every  now  and  then  some  special  class  formed 

[   172   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

in  line  and  lockstepped  right  through  the 
barrier  of  soldiers,  across  the  street,  passed 
through  the  line  on  the  other  side,  made  a 
turn  in  the  bridle  path,  and  marched  back 
again.  Now  and  then  a  group  of  St.  Cyrians 
met  a  group  from  St.  Barbe  or  some  other 
lycee,  and  for  a  moment  it  looked  like  an 
imitation  riot,  but  the  police  intervened  and 
separated  them,  and  then  —  they  began  all 
over  again. 

In  addition,  the  day  was  a  holiday;  every- 
thing was  closed  —  shops,  factories  and  all 
—  so  it  was  a  very  different  sort  of  day  and 
a  very  different  sort  of  crowd,  and  an  utterly 
different  spirit  from  that  which  marked  the 
arrival  of  the  kings.  But  I  have  already 
told  you  that  the  very  name  of  America  has 
the  French  hypnotized,  and  there  was  abso- 
lutely nothing  doing  in  Paris  that  day  except 
receiving  the  chief  executive  of  the  hypno- 
tizing State,  the  first  who  ever  went  a-roam- 
ing  during  his  term  of  office. 

It  was  an  historical  occasion  fast  enough. 

It  is  quite  needless,  of  course,  to  tell  you 
that  Wilson  got  a  great  reception  —  the 
American  boys  looked  out  for  that.  Besides, 
the  cables  have  told  you  all  about  it,  and  the 
cinema  also.  I  suppose  they  have  told  you 
in  the  papers  and  shown  you  in  the  cinema 
how  he  held  his  high  hat  at  arm's  length  to 
salute  the  cheering  crowd  and  acknowledge 
the  shouts  of  "  V'we  Wilson!  "  "  Vivent  les 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Etats-Unis!"  and  wore  his  best  broad  grin. 
He  would  hardly  have  been  human  if  he  had 
not.  We  did  not  see  much  of  Mrs.  Wilson. 
By  some  error,  most  unusual  with  the  French, 
there  were  four  in  her  carriage.  She  sat 
beside  Madame  Poincare,  with  Miss  Wilson 
and  Madame  Jusserand  opposite  to  her,  and 
the  floral  offerings  were  so  huge  that  hardly 
.anything  was  visible  but  Mrs.  Wilson's  head. 
Madame  Poincare  was  absolutely  eclipsed. 
I  imagine  that  the  protocol  had  not  counted 
on  any  women  but  the  two  presidential  ladies 
riding  in  the  official  cortege,  as  it  is  custom- 
ary for  all  those  in  the  suite  to  leave  the  sta- 
tion by  another  route. 

The  breaking  up  of  the  crowd,  if  it  could  be 
said  to  break  up  —  in  fact  it  only  shifted, — 
was  as  interesting,  once  Wilson  had  passed, 
as  the  procession.  Up  the  roadway  on  the 
eastern  side  of  the  Avenue  rushed  camion 
after  camion  loaded  with  singing  and  shout- 
ing American  soldiers,  while  the  mass  of 
women  and  children  on  the  sidewalk,  in  the 
windows  or  on  the  balconies,  waved  hand- 
kerchiefs and  flags  and  rained  kisses  on  them. 

It  was  a  Saturday,  and  later  in  the  day, 
when  I  had  rested,  I  undertook  to  go  to  the 
Soldiers'  and  Sailors'  Club  to  fetch  away  my 
hostess, — who  puts  in  parts  of  her  after- 
noons there  selling  ice-cream  tickets  to  the 
boys,  —  with  whom  the  club  is  very  popular, 
for  there  they  find  a  canlme  which  serves 

[  174  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

them  a  lot  of  things  dear  to  every  American, 
and  there  are  books  and  billiards  and  some 
of  the  "  comforts  of  home."  Now  and  then, 
when  I  am  in  town,  I  love  to  run  in  there 
just  to  see  the  boys. 

I  started  out  shortly  after  four,  taking 
Tototte,  the  little  French  bulldog,  with  me. 
She  loves  to  go  and  fetch  her  mother  home, 
and  sometimes  she  goes  for  the  afternoon 
to  play  with  the  boys,  for  although  she  is  a 
little  French  girl  and  speaks  no  English,  the 
boys  manage  to  understand  her.  What  nice 
American  boy  does  not  like  a  dog?  I  walked 
a  little  way  with  her  to  give  her  a  run,  and 
was  rather  surprised  when  I  hailed  a  taxi 
and  told  the  chauffeur  to  take  me  to  the  Rue 
Royale,  to  be  informed  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  get  there.  When  I  asked  why,  he 
mentioned  Wilson. 

"But,"  I  said,  "the  procession  was  over 
long  ago,  at  noon."  Wilson  had  arrived  in 
the  morning,  just  after  nine. 

"Ah!"  replied  the  chauffeur,  "but  the 
crowd  did  not  go  home." 

"Well,"  I  suggested,  after  a  moment's 
reflection,  "  take  me  as  near  as  possible  and 
I  will  try  to  go  on  on  foot."  And  we  started. 

On  arriving  at  the  entrance  to  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde  I  saw  a  sight  which  I  have 
not  seen  for  years.  As  far  as  my  eyes  could 
reach  was  a  surging  mass  of  heads.  It  looked 
as  if  one  could  walk  on  them.  All  traffic  had 

[  175  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

been  stopped.  So  I  got  out  and  started  on 
foot  across  the  Place.  It  was  only  a  short 
five  minutes  to  the  Club,  but  it  took  me  al- 
most half  an  hour  to  make  it.  I  started  lead- 
ing Tototte  on  her  leash,  but  that  was  im- 
possible. So  finally  I  had  to  carry  her  — 
and  she  is  no  light  weight.  Under  ordinary 
circumstances  I  should  have  abandoned  the 
effort,  but  with  some  one  waiting  for  me  who 
might  be  worried,  I  persisted.  I  went  step 
by  step  through  the  jam,  mostly  American 
boys  and  American  and  French  girls,  with 
a  smattering  of  English  soldiers,  some  of 
them  with  chips  on  their  shoulders  —  for  I 
imagine  it  will  be  no  news  to  you  to  hear  that 
when  Americans  and  English  meet  there  is 
apt  to  be  a  chip  on  one  or  both  shoulders, 
and  I  expected  every  minute  to  find  myself 
in  a  row.  But  I  finally  got  there  by  going 
slowly,  with  one  hand  before  me  to  make 
way  and  save  the  dog  from  being  crushed. 
She  was  so  good,  and  I  think  did  her  part  in 
inspiring  the  boys  to  help  me  through.  So 
as  this  Paris  for  Wilson  was  really  a  day  in 
honor  of  the  States,  it  belongs  to  every  one 
of  you  as  much  as  it  did  to  the  Wilsons,  per- 
haps more. 

We  did  not  attempt  to  get  back  until  din- 
ner time,  when  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  was 
temporarily  cleared,  though  I  heard  after- 
ward that  it  was  densely  packed  in  the 
evening. 

[    176   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

The  drive  home  gave  me  a  real  sensation. 
Imagine  rolling  up  the  Champs-Elysees 
again  in  a  brilliant  electric  light!  I  simply 
cannot  tell  you  what  it  seemed  like  to  be  out 
at  night  in  a  brightly  lighted  street.  I  felt 
as  if  I  were  seeing  Paris  for  the  first  time, 
and  for  the  first  time  knowing  how  very 
beautiful  it  is.  Just  think,  for  over  three 
years  we  have  crawled  around  at  night,  if  ill 
luck  took  us  out,  in  black  darkness,  with  here 
and  there,  at  a  corner,  a  glimmer  through 
blue  glass,  and  here  we  were,  driving  in  a 
long  line  of  autos  up  a  broad  avenue,  shining 
with  a  triple  row  of  arc-lights,  with  houses 
and  shops  gaily  illuminated.  It  looked  like 
fairyland.  It  brought  home,  as  nothing  else 
has,  the  realization  that  it  was  over,  that 
what  we  had  lived  through  we  should  never 
have  to  live  through  again,  and  seemed  sud- 
denly to  bridge  with  brightness  that  dark 
gap  between  August,  1914,  and  November, 
1918,  — 1560  days  of  agony  and  suspense. 

I  came  home  on  Monday  to  tell  them  all 
about  it.  The  one  thing  I  could  not  do  was 
to  answer  the  most  frequent  question :  "  Now 
that  President  Wilson  has  come,  will  peace 
be  made  at  once?" 

For  three  weeks  here  we  have  been  fol- 
lowing the  map  just  as  carefully  as  we  did 
in  the  fighting  days,  "but  oh,  the  difference 
to"  —  us.  We  have  been  watching  the  vic- 
torious armies  pushing  the  invaders  across 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

the  Rhine,  and  marching  into  Germany. 
But,  of  course,  you  are  following  that  in  the 
States,  and,  with  the  correspondents  who  are 
in  the  American  contingent,  I  '11  wager  you 
know  more  about  it  than  we  do.  It  was  all 
made  very  real  to  me  yesterday  by  an  Ameri- 
can officer  who  came  to  call,  who  had  been 
with  the  armies  of  occupation,  and  was  just 
back  from  Strasburg.  He  was  full  of  de- 
lightful and  picturesque  detail  of  these  days, 
with  here  and  there  a  note  of  disquietude. 
It  seems  so  different  to  chat  about  it  with 
some  one  who  has  actually  seen  it  all,  than 
to  read  it  in  the  newspapers. 

He  told  me  that  he  had  never  lived 
through  any  experience  so  wonderful  as  the 
entrance  of  the  French  into  Strasburg,  and 
never  expected  to  repeat  the  sensation,  and 
that  one  of  the  most  remarkable  things  was 
that  in  this  city,  which  had  been  forty-eight 
years  under  the  German  heel,  where  it  was 
a  crime  to  own  a  French  flag,  by  some 
strange  magic,  when  the  French  troops  en- 
tered, every  one  had  a  flag.  It  floated  from 
the  tops  of  all  the  buildings,  it  hung  out  of 
all  the  windows,  there  was  not  a  child  who 
did  not  have  one,  the  men  wore  them  on 
their  coats,  the  women  wore  them  in  their 
head-dresses.  It  was  as  if  a  conjurer  had 
done  the  trick.  What  was  equally  note- 
worthy, even  the  children  could  sing  "  La 
Marseillaise." 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

He  said  the  sights  in  the  streets  during  the 
entrance  of  the  troops  were  unforgettable, 
and  I  do  hope  the  cinema  will  give  it  all  to 
you,  and  that  American  women  and  children 
will  watch  the  moving  picture  with  a  full 
understanding  of  all  it  means.  But  no  pic- 
ture can  give  you  the  soul  of  it  as  I  had  it 
from  the  American  soldier  who  was  there, 
—  the  poilus  marching  to  music  through  the 
old  streets  of  the  loved  and  regained  city, 
the  women  and  children,  of  all  ages  and  all 
classes,  marching  beside  them,  and  at  inter- 
vals the  divisions  of  troops  separated  by  a 
line  of  dancing  girls  stretching  right  across 
the  street,  from  curb  to  curb,  —  all  in  their 
national  dress,  and  with  the  cocarde  on  the 
big  Alsatian  bow.  "  Remember,"  said  the 
narrator,  "these  were  the  women  and  chil- 
dren of  all  classes,  without  distinction  of 
rank  or  possessions,  ladies  and  servants,  the 
artisan  class  and  the  student,  the  profes- 
sional class  and  the  commercial,  and  they 
marched  over  the  whole  route." 

Even  prettier  was  the  scene  he  drew  of  the 
streets  after  the  parade  was  dismissed  when 
the  poilus  mingled  with  the  people.  "  It 
was,"  he  said,  "as  if  they  were  all  little 
brothers  and  sisters  together,  —  one  huge 
adoring  family.  There  was  nothing  rough 
or  rowdy  about  it,  only  bubbling  gaiety  and 
simple  joy.  I  had  the  conviction  that  if  any 
soldier  took  the  smallest  liberty  with  one  of 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

those  pretty  girls,  moving  so  frankly  and 
happily  among  them,  his  comrades  would 
make  short  shrift  of  him."  No  wonder  the 
tears  streamed  down  Petain's  cheeks  —  at 
least  "they  say"  they  did,  and  it  does  him 
credit. 

This  may  be  ancient  history  by  the  time 
you  read  it,  but  it  is  the  sort  of  thing  we  live 
on  here  in  these  anxious  days,  and  I  need 
such  little  tales  to  cheer  up  the  world  about 
me.  The  tension  is  terrible.  Every  one  real- 
izes that  Germany  gave  up  to  save  herself, 
and  ever  one  asks:  "What  now?"  What 
now,  indeed? 

There  is  not  a  boy  who  comes  home  on  a 
furlough  —  they  get  twenty  days  now  —  who 
does  not  bring  disquieting  tales  from  the 
Rhine,  and  the  hopes  that  the  most  optimis- 
tic had  five  weeks  ago  are  already  fading 
away.  In  addition,  as  the  Relief  societies 
advance  with  aid  into  the  evacuated  and  dev- 
astated regions,  which  are  shell-torn,  and 
into  the  cities,  like  Lille,  which  have  been 
scientifically  ruined,  we  get  back  tales  which 
even  the  race  that  has  faced  so  much  can 
hardly  bear.  I  hope  before  Wilson  talks  at 
all  he  will  go  through  that  part  of  France 
which  not  a  century's  labor,  nor  the  entire 
war  indemnity  to  be  wrung  from  Germany 
—  if  it  ever  is  —  can  remedy.  Until  he  has 
done  that,  he  cannot  judge  of  the  relative 
positions  of  France  and  Germany  at  all.  But 
[  180  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  suppose  he  must  be  as  anxious  to  do  that  as 
we  are  to  have  him. 

Do  you  remember  Aspirant  B ,  who 

was  'cantoned  in  my  house  two  years  ago, 
when  the  23rd  dragoons  were  holding  the 
trenches  nearest  Paris?  He  is  now  Lieuten- 
ant B .  I  had  a  letter  from  him  the 

other  day,  in  which  he  says:  "Wilson  aura 
du  etre  heureux  de  son  acceuil  chaleureux, 
mais  je  trouve  qu'il  n'est  pas  assez  dur  pour 
les  Boches.  Pensez  que  chez  moi  il  ne  reste 
que  les  murs  et  les  toils — ni  meubles,  ni 
vaisselle,  —  et  qu'en  rentrant  ainsi  victorieux 
a  la  maiscn  je  suis  encore  plus  malheureux 
que  le  boche  qui  rentre  defait,  et  vaincu. 
Avec  une  race  pareille  il  ne  faut  aucun  me- 
nagement,  et  la  justice  a  leur  egard  ne  devait 
pouvoir  commence  que  le  jour  oil  Us  auront 
repare  tous  leurs  crimes" 

Of  course  the  French  must  feel  like  that. 
Every  day  things  are  coming  to  their  knowl- 
edge which  make  the  feeling  deeper.  One 
hears  nothing  but  tales  of  devastation.  I 
know  you  are  getting  to  hate  the  word,  be- 
cause I  am  told  that  already  many  people  in 
the  States  want  to  forget  there  has  been  a 
war.  Here  we  can't  forget  it.  Even  going 
back  to  those  smashed-up  districts  is  danger- 
ous. Here  is  a  case. 

We  have  had  in  our  commune,  since  the 
evacuation  of  the  Aisne  last  spring,  among 
our  refugies,  a  family  driven  out  of  Acy,  a 

[  181  ]  ^ 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

small  town  a  few  miles  from  Soissons.  The 
family  consisted  of  a  brave,  sturdy  grand- 
mother, her  son,  recently  returned  as  unfit 
for  further  service  in  the  army,  the  son's 
wife,  and  two  little  girls,  very  intelligent,  all 
of  them,  —  a  superior  class  of  farmers.  The 
Germans  had  kept  the  grandfather.  Of 
course  he  was  liberated  when  the  armistice 
was  signed  and  came  at  once  to  join  his  fam- 
ily. In  the  fall,  when  Acy  was  liberated,  the 
son  and  his  wife  returned,  leaving  the  grand- 
mother here  with  the  children  because  the 
commune  of  Acy  could  not  put  up  shelters 
for  more  than  fifty  of  the  three  hundred  who 
wanted  to  return,  and  so  no  one  was  per- 
mitted to  go  back  except  those  who  could 
best  work  in  clearing  the  fields  and  getting 
them  ready  to  plant.  As  soon  as  the  grand- 
father was  liberated,  after  he  had  seen  his 
wife  and  his  grandchildren,  he  joined  his  son 
at  Acy  to  work.  He  was  a  handsome,  sturdy 
old  chap  of  seventy-two,  straight  and  tall, 
aud  had  never  had  a  day's  illness  in  his  life 
when  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Germans, 
and  considered  that  he  was  good  for  twenty 
more  years  of  work.  He  was  shockingly 
abused  by  the  Roches,  and  came  here  with  a 
terrible-looking  left  hand,  —  the  result  of  an 
accident  while  working  for  the  Germans  in 
Germany.  The  hand  had  not  had  proper 
care,  and  one  useless  finger  is  to  be  amputated 
by  the  French  doctor  here,  as  the  hand  will 
[  182  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

be  better  without  it.  The  old  man  did  not 
complain.  He  was  too  glad  to  get  back.  Be- 
sides, it  was  a  left  hand,  and  the  good  right 
hand  remained.  So  he  cheerfully  went  off 
to  join  his  son. 

He  was  not  gone  long.  The  fields  around 
Acy  were  full  of  shell  cases  and  all  sorts  of 
debris  from  the  battles,  and  of  course  there 
were  many  duds.  For  a  while  they  got  these 
out  safely,  but  one  day  as  they  were  handling 
one  it  exploded,  just  as  father  and  son  were 
lifting  it,  and  the  old  man  is  back  here  with 
his  right  hand  mangled  and  burned  —  while 
the  son  was  too  badly  injured  to  be  moved. 
I  suppose  that  sort  of  thing  will  happen 
again  and  again  for  years. 

Near  as  Acy  is  to  us,  only  about  forty 
miles,  it  is  not  yet  fed.  They  Ve  no  food,  no 
clothing,  no  doctor,  and  the  States  are  talking 
about  feeding  Germany.  I  say,  let  Germany 
rot.  When  every  one  of  the  poor  suffering 
people  for  whom  the  Allies  have  fought  and 
bled  have  been  clothed,  comforted,  and  fed, 
and  when  Russia  has  been  helped,  in  recog- 
nition of  the  wonderful  fight  she  put  up  in 
the  first  years  of  the  war,  and  in  memory  of 
the  days  when  some  of  them  fought  on  with 
only  their  naked  fists  for  arms,  it  will  be  time 
to  even  sell  food  to  Germany,  but  not  until 
then.  Nothing  that  has  ever  happened  since 
the  war  began  has  created  such  a  dangerous 
excitement  here  as  the  proposition  made  to 

[  '83  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

feed  Germany.  The  very  first  suggestion  is 
a  month  old  now,  but  it  is  indignantly  re- 
ferred to  every  day.  It  was  not  as  if  the 
armistice  had  ended  suffering  here.  It 
brought  the  very  first  suspicion  that  Germany 
might  be  going  to  escape  her  punishment. 
I  am  afraid  that  here,  remembering  how 
German  women  have  behaved,  they  see  little 
difference  between  German  soldiers  and  Ger- 
man civilians,  and  while  no  one  wants  to 
apply  Boche  treatment  to  the  German  civil- 
ians in  the  occupied  territory,  they  see  no 
reason  to  aid  them  at  the  expense  of  the 
races  that,  in  addition  to  the  ordinary  depri- 
vations of  war,  have  suffered  from  the  Ger- 
man brutal  methods  of  oppression. 

An  American  officer  said  to  me  the  other 
day :  "  It  was  not  until  I  got  into  the  part  of 
France  that  had  been  so  long  occupied  by  the 
Huns  that  my  gall  really  rose.  We  all  hear 
tales  of  the  horrors  of  war.  The  air  is  full 
of  the  stories  of  brutal  things  done.  But  I 
saw  something  a  few  days  ago  that  settled 
anything  German  for  me  the  rest  of  my  life. 
I  was  at  a  little  country  house  which  had 
been  for  four  years  occupied  by  a  group  of  a 
dozen  German  officers.  The  house  was  the 
home  of  an  old  man  nearly  eighty  and  his 
wife,  not  much  younger.  The  Germans  had 
taken  possession  of  everything,  leaving  the 
old  couple  to  sleep  in  the  corner  of  a  shed, 
without  covers,  without  food,  in  a  heap  of 

[    184  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

straw  that  became  rotten  with  filth.  At  the 
end,  the  old  folks  lived  on  herbs  and  roots, 
and  the  Germans  refused  them  all  aid. 
There  they  were  at  the  door  of  their  own 
little  house,  where  they  once  had  a  cow  and 
chickens  and  rabbits,  and  a  garden.  Never 
in  all  the  time  the  Germans  occupied  the 
place  did  they  give  the  old  people  even  a 
crust.  That  settled  the  race  for  me,  because 
I  argued  that  there  might  be  certain  Ger- 
mans so  brutal  that  the  sufferings  of  the  old 
couple  they  had  dislodged  and  robbed  were 
a  matter  of  indifference  to  them,  but,  in  a 
group  of  Germans,  that  there  should  not  be 
one  who,  in  recollection  of  his  own  mother, 
had  in  years  been  moved,  even  on  the  sly, 
to  feed  the  old  people,  that  was  too 
significant." 

The  weather  has  been  terribly  unhealthful 
so  far.  One  good  freeze  would  kill  the 
grippe.  But  it  does  not  come. 


XIII 

Christmas  Day,   1918 

I'D  like  to  feel  like  writing  "Victory  Christ- 
mas," but  I  don't.  However,  I  feel  better 
than  I  have  for  the  last  four  Christmas  Days, 
if  in  some  ways  not  so  cheery.  If  anyone 
had  told  me  that  six  weeks  after  the  armistice 
was  signed,  with  its  hard  terms,  we  should 
know  nothing  of  the  terms  of  the  peace,  I 
should  not  have  believed  it.  We  have  known 
the  general  outline  of  what  was  to  be  dictated 
to  Germany,  and  we  are  all  aware  that  if  it 
had  been  done  when  Germany  was  down 
and  out  they  would  have  been  accepted.  I 
can't  make  you  understand  how  people  feel 
about  it  here,  so  it  is  no  use  to  talk  about  it. 
Let's  talk  Christmas. 

I  did  not  go  to  Paris.  I  have  been  up  so 
often  lately  that  I  thought  I  had  better  stay 
at  home,  and  celebrate  the  first  peace  Christ- 
mas here  among  my  beasties  —  not  that  they 
appreciate  it,  alas!  The  truth  is  that  I  am 
afraid  I  have  lost  the  spirit  of  Christmas, 
and  I  do  hope  I  can  get  it  back  when  we 
have  a  real  peace  celebration. 

[   186  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

It  snows.  The  only  thing  that  has 
"gayed"  me  up  at  all  was  the  unexpected 
arrival  of  a  huge  automobile  this  morning, 
out  of  which  climbed  four  nice  American  men, 
on  their  way  out  to  the  devastated  regions. 
They  stopped  just  long  enough  to  wish  me 
a  "  Happy  Christmas "  and  give  me  some 
American  chocolates,  and  to  let  me  find  out 
that  they  belonged  to  my  political  party, 
which  was  a  blessing,  as  it  let  me  express  an 
opinion  or  two,  which  is  a  joy  I  have  not 
had  for  many  a  day.  When  you  have  had  to 
be  careful  as  long  as  I  have  for  the  honour 
of  your  country  among  people  who  idolize 
it,  you  will  learn  the  joy  of  striking  out  from 
the  shoulder.  I  had  it  this  morning,  and  it 
did  me  so  much  good  that  I  rejoiced  that  I 
had  stayed  at  home  today. 

No,  I  shall  certainly  not  tell  you  what  I 
said, 

I  have  been  a  little  saddened  and  much 
wrought  up  these  last  few  days.  In  the  first 
place,  I  have  seen  some  of  our  prisoners  re- 
turning from  Germany.  Be  thankful  that 
you  don't  have  to  see  them.  I  hope  Wilson 
will,  but  of  course  he  won't.  I  understand 
that  he  does  not  like  to  see  things  that  stir 
him  up,  for  fear  that  he  cannot  be  impartial, 
—  as  if  anyone  wanted  him  to  be.  That  I  am 
not  overwrought  to  the  injustice  point  by  the 
incident  is  proved  by  a  letter  which  I  have 
just  received  from  a  New  York  man  who  has 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

been  working  for  a  long  time  with  the  Red 
Cross.  He  wrote  me  the  other  day : 

"  Since  seeing  the  returned  French  pris- 
oners I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
terms  of  the  armistice  are  far  too  lenient. 
I  am  afraid  we  shall  never  learn  to  deal  with 
the  savages.  When  I  think  of  the  fat,  well- 
fed,  well-clothed,  kindly  treated  German 
prisoners,  for  whom  every  one  felt  too  sorry, 
—  and  how  many  of  us  complained  because 
we  could  not  do  more  for  them,  —  and  then 
see  the  men  whom  Germany  has  sent  back  to 
us,  I  feel  that  we  ought  to  starve  the  whole 
nation  systematically." 

As  for  me,  I  say  "  second  the  motion,"  and 
with  all  my  heart. 

Here  the  returning  of  the  prisoners  has 
been  as  tragic  as  any  episode  of  the  war. 

I  am  sure  that  I  told  you  long  ago  that 
here  many  women  whose  men  were  reported 
"missing"  in  the  early  months  of  the  war 
had  never  given  up  hope,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  in  every  case  the  Red  Cross  at  Geneva 
and  the  King  of  Spain  had  made  every 
possible  effort  to  trace  them.  Well,  among 
the  first  of  the  missing  men  to  return  here 
was  a  young  man  from  St.  Germain,  who  was 
reported  "missing"  in  August,  1914,  and 
of  whom  no  trace  had  ever  been  found. 
He  came  back  here  from  the  Meuse,  a  part 
of  the  country  which  has  been  occupied  by 
the  Huns  since  August,  1914,  which  they  only 
[  188  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

left  after  the  armistice.  It  seems  that  in  his 
very  first  battle  he  was  cut  off  with  several 
comrades  and  hid  when  the  Germans  passed, 
and  was  found  by  the  French  peasants,  who 
got  him  some  clothes,  burned  his  uniform, 
and  furnished  him  with  false  —  or  stolen  — 
civil  papers.  At  any  rate,  he  remained  there 
on  the  farm,  and  worked  until  the  armistice 
was  signed.  Of  course  under  these  con- 
ditions, with  the  Germans  in  occupation,  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  communicate  with 
anyone. 

Naturally  his  arrival  threw  the  whole 
commune  into  a  terrible  state  of  excitement. 
Women  who  had  not  been  able  to  get  posi- 
tive proof  of  the  death  of  their  men  plucked 
up  hope,  and  lived  under  a  dreadful  strain, 
but  no  more  "  missing  "  men  arrived.  There 
is  one  dear  woman  at  Couilly  who  came 
precious  near  going  under  at  this  second 
blow.  She  had  hoped  against  hope  for  four 
years  that  her  man  would  come  back,  and  for 
days  after  the  boy  at  St.  Germain  arrived 
she  met  every  train,  growing  paler  and 
thinner  every  day,  and  living  those  first 
weeks  of  1914  all  over  again. 

Yesterday  my  good  friend  the  Cure  told 
me  one  of  the  saddest  stories  I  ever  heard. 
Among  the  first  prisoners  to  arrive  at  Vaires, 
close  to  the  fort  of  Chelles,  and  only  a  few 
miles  from  us,  was  an  old  man  of  seventy, 
whom  no  one  there  remembered.  He  was  a 

[  189  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

prisoner  of  war  in  1870,  being  at  that  time 
only  twenty-two  years  old.  He  was  con- 
demned by  the  Germans,  for  some  military 
offence  —  he  does  not  himself  seem  to  re- 
member what  —  and  sentenced  to  prison  for 
life,  and  for  forty-eight  years  he  has  been  in 
confinement  in  a  German  fort.  When  the 
prisoners  of  the  present  war  were  released 
from  that  fort  they  brought  him  with  them, 
and  he  was  sent  back  to  Vaires  where  he  had 
last  lived  —  but  no  one  remembers  him.  It 
is  a  little  town  where  the  chocolate  works 
are,  and  the  population,  as  in  all  factory 
towns,  comes  and  goes. 

Just  think  —  to  have  left  France  in  1870, 
a  lad,  and  to  come  back  at  the  age  of  seventy, 
—  forgotten  by  every  one.  There  's  a  better 
subject  for  a  romance-maker  than  Latude. 
It  simply  haunts  me. 

This  is  a  great  letter  for  Christmas. 
Sorry.  But  I  feel  no  more  Christmassy  than 
it  sounds.  To  be  sure,  outwardly  I  have 
tried  to  do  the  proper  things.  I  have  hung 
a  huge  bunch  of  mistletoe  in  the  centre  of  the 
salon,  and  I  had  holly  on  the  breakfast  table 
and  dressed  for  dinner,  and  I  drank  every 
one's  health,  with  only  Dick  and  Khaki  to 
witness  the  ceremony.  I  tried  to  think  I  was 
happier,  but  I  was  not.  Neither,  for  that 
matter,  is  anyone  else. 

I  once  told  you  that  many  a  woman  in 
France  would  not  realize  the  full  measure  of 

[   190  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

her  agony  until  the  army  returns,  and  in  the 
same  way  I  am  beginning  to  believe  that 
France  will  not  know  the  greatness  of  her 
disaster  until  peace  is  signed  and  she  is  free 
to  live  normally  again.  During  the  long 
years  of  fighting,  to  save  France  from  death 
was  the  people's  one  thought.  She  is  living, 
and  the  French  have  time  to  look  at  her,  to 
realize  her  condition,  and  ask  themselves  if 
she  can  fully  recover.  Years  and  milliards 
may  put  the  North  back  as  it  was  in  1914,  and 
it  will  take  generations  before  the  trained 
expert  workmen  can  be  replaced.  How  is 
France  to  compete  with  the  luckier  races  — 
like  the  Germans,  for  example  ?  Nothing  that 
can  be  done  to  Germany  can  remedy  this  dis- 
aster; and  what  can  be  done  to  her,  even  in 
her  so-called  defeat,  to  prevent  her  profiting 
by  it,  I  don't  see.  Today  all  the  agony  of  war 
is  being  replaced  by  anxiety  for  the  future,  and 
the  suspense  of  the  Peace  Congress,  and 
Wilson's  attitude  regarding  the  imposition 
of  his  idealistic  League  of  Nations.  What 
no  one  can  understand  here  is  why  this  war 
should  have  to  be  settled  by  a  League  of 
Nations  which  did  not  exist  when  it  broke 
out,  and  why  so  serious  a  situation  should 
be  held  in  abeyance  while  the  League  is 
formed?  I  can't  tell  them.  I  don't  know, 
myself.  Do  you? 


XIV 

January  30, 

I  did  mean  to  write  you  a  nice  New  Year's 
letter.  I  simply  could  not.  If  this  tension 
keeps  on  until  late  spring,  as  they  tell  us  it 
will,  my  nerves  will  be  so  frazzled  that  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  write  at  all.  In  fact,  there  is 
nothing  much  to  write  except  things  which 
are  disturbing.  I  have  made  one  brief  visit 
to  Paris  since  I  went  up  to  see  Wilson  arrive. 
I  did  nothing  but  eat  a  New  Year's  dinner, 
and  came  home  sick  —  and  that  was  no  joke 
at  this  season. 

I  have  done  nothing  interesting,  and  noth- 
ing interesting  has  happened,  unless  it  in- 
terests you  to  hear  of  the  New  Year's  visit 
of  the  children.  It  didn't  happen  on  New 
Year's  Day.  I  wasn't  here,  and  I  was  too 
ill  the  week  I  returned  to  see  anyone. 

You  know  New  Year's  calls  are  made  over 
here  by  the  people  of  all  classes.  Even 
among  the  peasants,  relatives  religiously  ob- 
serve the  custom.  There  are  people  who 
make  visits  and  people  who  receive  them. 
I,  owing  to  my  age,  am  not  expected  to  make 
them. 

[    192   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

It  is  also  the  habit  of  the  children  of  the 
peasant  class  to  make  the  round  of  the  com- 
mune, wishing  each  person  a  "  Happy  New 
Year,"  and  expecting  to  be  kissed  in  return 
for  the  salutation  and  receive  a  few  sous  for 
their  savings  bank  —  just  as  the  enfants  du 
chceur  come  to  the  door  on  Easter  morning 
and  kneel  on  your  threshold  to  sing,  with 
the  same  object.  These  are  customs  which 
are  as  old  as  France,  and  which  many  for- 
eigners dislike.  They  are  classed  in  the  griev- 
ance against  the  race  known  as  the  "  French 
love  of  the  sou"  However,  I  find  it,  in  the 
end,  much  less  costly  than  our  habit  of  use- 
less presents  to  the  same  class.  The  French 
peasant  children  never  have  toys.  They  play 
just  as  well  without  them.  They  never  miss 
them.  Besides,  their  mothers  consider  two 
francs  spent  for  a  plaything,  when  the  same 
sum  would  buy  two  days'  bread,  wicked,  and 
almost  every  child  has  her  little  savings  fund 
in  the  Post-Office  Bank. 

It  was  the  first  Sunday  after  I  was  better 

—  last  Sunday,  in  fact  —  that  the  children, 
accompanied   by   the    Cure,    and   the   Vice- 
President  of  the  Historical  Society  of  the 
Brie  and  his  wife,  came  up  the  hill  to  present 
me  formally  with  their  felicitations  and  wish 
me,  and  —  to  use  their  words  —  my  "dear 
and  noble  country,  the  magnificent  and  gen- 
erous America  "  (which  I  represent  to  them) 

—  a  very  Happy  New  Year. 

[   193   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

You  would  have  loved  to  see  the  dear 
children,  all  in  their  best  clothes,  standing 
in  a  circle  in  front  of  me,  while  one  of  the 
smallest  tots,  led  forward  by  the  Cure  and 
told  by  him  to  "  speak  up,  now,"  made  me  a 
formal  speech,  tendering  me,  so  prettily, 
their  thanks  for  all  American  ladies  had 
done  for  them,  and  ending  with:  "Accept, 
then,  our  good  wishes  for  1919,  —  the  year 
of  victory  and  peace,  —  and  let  us  all  cry, 
with  one  heart  and  one  voice  —  'Long  live 
the  United  States.  Long  live  France.' ' 

'  It  was  a  pretty,  touching  little  ceremony, 
and  I  pass  it  on  to  all  the  American  friends, 
to  whom  it  belongs  more  than  it  does  to  me. 
I  had  to  smile  at  your  remark  in  your  last 
letter  —  that  I  ought  now  to  go  away  and  get 
a  nice  rest.  Do  you  know,  I  could  not  if  I 
wanted  to.  I  have  no  passport,  and  have 
not  had  for  some  months.  Now  thereby 
hangs  what  I  consider  a  very  interesting  tale. 
In  the  spring  of  1918  I  had  a  new  passport — 
it  cost  me  twelve  francs,  plus  the  expense  of 
having  new  photographs  taken  for  it.  At 
that  time  the  passport  bureau  —  served  by 
youngsters  in  their  teens,  or  not  much  past 
them  —  put  me  through  the  third  degree. 
There  was  very  little  of  my  private  life  that 
the  young  man  —  who  at  that  time  did  not 
know  me  from  Adam  —  did  not  require  of 
me.  The  fact  that  my  home  and  all  I  pos- 
sessed was  in  France  did  not  move  him  at  all. 

[    194  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  had  no  business  to  be  here.  Finally  he  told 
me  that  I  must  go  to  the  Red  Cross  to  look 
up  my  status.  That  was  easy.  One  of  the 
important  people  in  the  Relief  Corps,  to 
which  I  belonged,  wrote  a  letter  explaining 
that  I  was  the  only  person  doing  the  relief 
work  here  and  could  not  be  spared.  I  sent 
it  to  the  passport  department,  and  in  due 
time  I  got  my  passport  —  which  had  been 
paid  for  when  I  applied  for  it. 

A  few  months  later  they  combed  out  the 
Americans  in  France  again.  There  were 
still  nothing  but  young  men  in  the  bureau, 
and  I  was  told  with  great  courtesy  that  there 
was  nothing  personal  in  the  matter,  but  that 
the  government  wanted  no  Americans  in 
France  who  were  not  here  on  war  business, 
etc.,  etc.,  or  who  did  not  have  a  "worker's 
ticket"  —  and  they  held  up  my  passport. 

Paris  was  simply  crowded  at  that  time 
with  Americans  of  all  sorts  who  had  political 
pull  or  knew  some  one  who  had.  I  could 
have  asked  at  the  Red  Cross  for  a  worker's 
ticket  and  it  would  have  been  given  me,  but 
as  my  health  and  the  work  I  was  doing  would 
not  permit  my  doing  the  work  which  should 
be  done  by  every  man  or  woman  carrying 
that  ticket  I  simply  declined  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  circumstances  to  do  what  I  abso- 
lutely resent  seeing  done  by  so  many.  So 
my  government  withdrew  its  protection  from 
me.  I  wanted  to  ask  them  to  refund  my  two 

[  195  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

dollars,  but  it  was  hardly  worth  while  being 
facetious  about  it.  I  knew  perfectly  well 
that  the  regulations  under  which  passports 
were  being  withdrawn  was  never  meant  to  be 
applied  to  a  person  in  my  position.  I  was 
carrying  every  French  paper  which  the  law 
could  devise,  and  the  only  need  I  could  have 
here  for  an  American  passport  would  be  to 
go  to  the  States,  —  or,  for  that  matter,  out 
of  the  country,  —  neither  of  which  I  desired 
to  do. 

So  you  behold  me  —  technically — a  lady 
"without  a  country,"  although  my  country 
does  not  at  all,  I  imagine,  object  to  collecting 
taxes  from  me.  Bear  that  in  mind  the  next 
time  you  suggest  my  going  to  Spain  or  some 
other  nice  place  to  "  rest  up,"  as  you  call  it. 
I  assure  you  that  we  poor  Americans  —  too 
poor  to  live  comfortably  in  the  land  of  our 
birth  —  have  had  some  hard  times  when  we 
were  trying  to  keep  up  the  faith  of  the  French 
in  the  early  days  of  the  war.  Don't  run 
away  with  the  old  idea  that  I  am  resenting 
this,  or  even  feel  hurt.  I  don't.  Not  a  bit. 
Rules  are  straight  lines,  like  laws.  They 
always  cut  off  the  heads  or  feet  of  some  inno- 
cent people.  I  am  a  martyr  to  a  perfectly 
good  law,  and  until  some  harm  comes  of  it  I 
can  afford  to  laugh.  I  hope  I  could  still 
laugh  if  some  embarrassment  had  come  of  it. 
Is  there  such  a  thing  as  Liberty?  Where? 

By  the  way,  that  reminds  me.    You  accused 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

me  in  one  of  your  recent  letters  of  having 
after  all  —  to  quote  your  own  words  — 
"  got  lots  of  fun  out  of  the  war,"  and  that, 
so  far  as  I  can  see,  because  I  have  found  it 
"  as  easy  to  laugh  as  to  be  crying."  I  plead 
guilty,  in  a  way.  I  have  laughed,  and  I  do 
laugh  still  —  on  the  smallest  provocation, 
and  I  thank  God  I  can.  Let  me  tell  you  some- 
thing—  no  one  has  been  any  good  over  here 
in  the  last  years  who  could  not  laugh.  On  the 
battle-fields,  in  the  hospitals,  in  the  cantonne- 
ments,  in  the  trenches  even,  it  was  laughter 
that  was  needed.  It  was  more  healing  than 
medicine  —  it  consoled  where  nothing  else 
could.  It  was  the  very  sunshine.  The  great- 
est tragic  actor  in  the  world,  who  could  play 
to  five-dollar  stalls  on  Broadway,  was  a  frost 
in  the  camps  and  at  the  front  compared  with 
the  slangiest  razzle-dazzle  vaudevillist  with 
a  broad  grin  on  his  phiz  and  a  broad  joke 
up  his  sleeve. 

I  learned  that  lesson  from  the  poilus  early 
in  the  war,  in  our  own  little  hospital,  and  in 
seeing  the  shows  the  boys  got  up  here  when 
they  were  billeted  among  us.  I  never  saw 
but  one  serious  effort  get  across  in  any  of  the 
shows  here  —  and  that  was  patriotic  and 
personal,  and  was  sandwiched  in  between  two 
of  the  broadest  farces  I  ever  saw.  It  is  the 
old,  old  story: 

"  Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you. 
Weep,  and  you  weep  alone." 

[   197   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

When  some  sudden  thing  knocked  open  the 
tear  trap,  well,  one  had  simply  to  laugh 
through  the  flowing  waters,  and  hope  for  a 
spiritual  rainbow.  Anyway  —  out  in  the 
open  —  I  have  done  the  best  I  could.  Of 
course,  had  I  happened  to  have  been  born  an 
Armenian  and  to  have  lived  at  Van,  I  don't 
know  how  far  my  sense  of  humour  would 
have  carried,  or  if  I  could  still  have  gone  on 
making,  now  and  then,  a  feeble  joke.  But 
since  our  visions  are  limited,  and  we  can  only 
see  just  so  far,  whether  it  be  over  the  surface 
of  the  earth  or  on  the  surface  of  life,  perhaps 
even  had  I  been  an  Armenian  and  survived 
the  evacuation  of  Van,  I  might,  after  a  bit, 
have  pulled  myself  together  and  gone  on,  as 
the  surviving  Armenians  will,  for  you  know 
they  still  believe  they  are  going  to  be  a  great 
nation,  and  they  have  two  thousand  years  of 
Christian  endeavor  behind  them. 

It  all  seems  cruel  to  our  short  sight.  It 
may  be  cruel,  but  it  is  not  unproductive,  and 
it  cannot  be  uninspiring,  for  if  it  were,  the 
bravest  and  the  tenderest,  the  most  intelligent 
and  the  noblest,  would  not  bear  it,  but  would 
find  the  "  open  door,"  and  slip  away  to  leave 
the  world  and  life  and  all  such  things  to  the 
unintelligent  —  one  remove  from  the  beasts. 

So,  you  see,  nervous,  unquiet  as  I  am,  I  am 
not  discouraged.  Of  course,  things  are 
gloomy  if  one  looks  too  closely,  and  the 
misery  is  beyond  words,  and,  as  if  that  and 

[    198   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

the  grippe  and  the  difficulty  of  the  food  ques- 
tion were  not  enough,  we  are  flooded,  and 
have  been  for  weeks.  Looking  out  of  my 
window  in  the  work  room  where  I  write,  the 
Marne  and  the  canal  are  merged  into  one 
wide  sea  across  which  the  railroad  runs.  The 
Morin  is  over  its  banks  at  Couilly  and  many 
of  the  houses  have  their  basements  under 
water.  I  am  glad  that  I  live  on  a  hilltop,  and 
I  am  also  glad  that  we  don't  have  to  think, 
this  time,  that  the  poor  boys  are  up  to  their 
knees  or  their  necks  in  it. 


[   199  ] 


XV 

St.  Valentine's  Day,  1919 

IT  would  have  been  nice  if  we  could  have 
had  peace  for  a  valentine,  but,  my  word!  it 
seems  further  off  than  ever,  and  Wilson  just 
leaving  to  make  you  a  ceremonious  call  in  the 
States.  All  I  can  do  in  honour  of  the  day  is 
to  wish  that  the  saint  who  restored  sight  to 
the  Roman  noble's  daughter  could  bestow 
clear  vision  on  the  Peace  Congress,  and  in 
some  way  inspire  them  to  remedy  the  dis- 
aster of  the  armistice  and  not  to  fling  to  the 
dogs  the  victory  that  four  years'  suffering 
and  effort  would  have  won  but  for  that  error. 

You  ask  me  in  the  letter  just  received  how 
it  happens  that  "our  Mr.  Wilson"  is  such 
a  power,  and  I  judge  by  your  comments  that 
you  are  beginning  to  understand  in  the  States 
how  dangerous  the  situation  has  become, 
owing  to  the  perverse  determination  to  force 
the  so-called  League  of  Nations  to  prevent 
future  wars  before  the  terms  of  the  peace  to 
conclude  the  present  war  are  imposed.  That 
is  an  easy  question  to  answer,  and  I  feel  as  if 
I  had  answered  it  already.  The  truth  is, 
America  has  had  Europe  hypnotized,  and 
[  200  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

even  now,  when  the  war  has  passed  its 
fighting  stage  and  the  invader  has  gone 
home,  that  obsession  persists.  It  explains  the 
preeminence  of  Wilson.  At  least  it  does 
when  added  is  the  determination  to  be  the 
whole  show  which  has  marred  his  whole 
career  as  schoolmaster  and  politician.  To 
the  people  here  Wilson  was,  at  the  time  of 
his  arrival,  the  United  States  of  America. 
His  ideas  were  accepted  as  their  ideas.  His 
hopes  were  supposed  to  be  their  hopes.  His 
opinions  and  his  voice  were  accepted  as 
theirs.  You  must  hold  that  thought  if  you 
wish  to  understand  what  has  thus  far  hap- 
pened here. 

To  understand  how  this  came  to  pass  you 
must  bear  in  mind  that  long  before  we  came 
into  the  war  the  American  Red  Cross  and 
the  many  private  relief  organizations  (the 
whole  of  whose  great  work  has  so  helped 
France  to  meet  her  fate)  became  in  Europe 
the  symbol  of  America.  Long  before  Wil- 
son, in  answer  to  the  popular  demand,  finally 
declared  war,  all  over  battle-torn  Europe 
the  Americans  have  carried  hope  and  care, 
food  and  aid.  Her  boys  bore  arms  and  died 
in  the  Foreign  Legion.  Her  brave  doctors 
and  tireless  nurses  tended  and  soothed  the 
sick  and  dying.  All  along  the  front  her  am- 
bulances were  behind  the  firing  lines,  her 
stretcher-bearers  on  the  battle-fields,  and  her 
huge  hospitals  working  their  operating  rooms 

[   201    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

day  and  night.  Long  before,  in  the  eleventh 
hour,  the  States  were  allowed  to  rise  up  en 
masse  against  the  German  kultur,  which  had 
so  nearly  blocked  the  road  over  which  hu- 
manity imagined  it  was  moving  to  a  finer 
interpretation  of  justice  and  liberty,  Amer- 
ican women  had  left  home  and  ease  to  rush 
to  the  aid  of  suffering  Europe,  and  had  not 
only  given  their  services  to  the  French  and 
the  Belgians,  but  had  marched  among  the 
retreating  Servians,  had  sowed  hundreds  of 
relief  works  in  poor  Italy,  had  mingled  with 
the  suffering  in  Russia  under  dangerous  con- 
ditions, and  had  been  seen  trying  to  soothe 
all  the  disasters  in  the  Far  East. 

In  those  hard  days,  when  France  was 
listening, — not  for  "  a  new  idea  out  from  the 
west,"  but  to  hear  the  great  cry  which  finally 
came,  "Holdfast!  We  are  coming," — there 
was  not  a  secteur  in  all  the  world  at  war  that 
had  not  become  familiarized  with  the  khaki- 
clad  American  Ambulance  Corps  and  the 
white-coifed  American  women  of  the  Hos- 
pital Corps  or  the  uniformed  girls  of  the 
Relief  Corps.  In  addition,  every  American 
hospital  had  a  free  clinic  for  civilians  and 
all  over  Europe  there  were  homes  and  schools 
for  orphan  children  and  refugies,  where 
little  tots  were  being  brought  up  as  French 
as  they  were  born,  with  just  a  few  seeds  of 
cleanliness  and  order  thrown  in,  for  which 
those  who  fell  under  such  care  will  be  better 
[  202  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

all  their  lives.  There  were  countless  small 
towns  which  had  seen  this  work,  and  the 
humbler  the  people  the  more  they  became  ob- 
sessed with  the  American  idea.  It  repre- 
sented to  the  people  in  remote  places  the 
hope  for  the  future,  because  they  recognized 
that  it  was  absolutely  disinterested.  That 
was  why  when  Wilson  came  he  represented  to 
them  the  States.  I  am  sure  that  you  know  — 
or  have  known  —  all  this,  but  it  is  likely  to  be 
forgotten,  so  I  impress  it  on  you. 

Outwardly  —  in  official,  financial,  and  po- 
litical sets  —  the  same  feeling  existed,  but  for 
other  reasons.  Official,  financial  and  politi- 
cal cliques  are  rarely  disinterested.  In  the 
present  condition  of  the  world's  affairs  the 
States  seem  to  stand  apart,  and  the  rest  of 
the  world  has  need  of  them.  America  — 
less  tried  than  her  Allies  (I  suppose  I  ought 
to  say  "associates"),  her  losses  compara- 
tively small,  her  spirit  far  less  perturbed, 
far  richer  in  resources,  in  men  and  in  money, 
is  actually  necessary  to  the  world,  and  the 
world  knows  it.  Just  as  the  humble  people 
living  about  me  are  obsessed  by  the  idea 
of  wonderful  America,  and  can  only  be 
awakened  from  it  by  a  rude  shock,  in  a 
certain  sense  she  has  the  whole  world  under 
the  same  influence,  and  Wilson  knows  it. 

It  is  rather  an  alarming  idea,  isn't  it? 

All  sorts  of  stray  thoughts  keep  starting 
up  before  me  to  make  me  anxious.  I  remem- 

[  203  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

ber  that  in  the  days  before  the  war  the  one 
thing  we  Americans  who  had  lived  over 
here  a  long  time,  and  were  out  of  touch, 
used  to  want  to  know  was  —  "What  about 
Wilson." 

One  day  I  asked  a  New  York  man  the 
question,  and  he  replied:  "Well,  I  have  yet 
to  see  the  person  who  really  likes  him,  but 
no  one  dares  question  his  politics."  It  was 
terse,  but  it  explained  a  lot  to  me. 

The  disquieting  thought  is  that  nothing 
stands  still,  and  there  is  "no  backward  step, 
no  returning."  The  Allies  did  "  a  long  pull, 
a  strong  pull,  a  pull  all  together,"  until  the 
armistice,  but. —  the  slaughter  being  stopped 
—  they  seem  to  be  pulling  in  every  direction, 
and  it  looks  to  me  as  if  the  League  of  Nations 
is  likely  to  inspire  some  more  of  just  that 
sort  of  pulling,  —  at  least,  as  it  is  now. 

No,  I  am  not  kicking  against  the  idea  of 
a  League  of  Nations.  Once  the  world  is  at 
peace,  in  the  calm,  such  a  league  might  be 
formed,  but  it  cannot  be  done  in  a  hurry.  It 
surely  cannot  be  drawn  up,  well  studied  and 
approved  by  all  the  governments  in  a  rush. 

You  write  as  if  I  liked  war. 

I  don't. 

There  are  a  great  many  things  that  I  don't 
like  that  I  don't  see  any  way  to  prevent.  I 
don't  believe  that  any  one  likes  war  except 
the  Huns.  Still,  I  never  can  forget  that 
there  are  much  worse  things  than  death,  and 

[   204  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

much  worse  ways  to  die  than  in  a  battle,  and 
that  there  are  few  more  inspiring  and  up- 
lifting things  than  a  heroic  death,  and  — 
League  of  Nations  or  no  League  of  Nations 
—  we  shall  still  have  death  with  us  just  the 
same.  That  is  what  most  people  object  to 
in  war  —  mind,  I  say  most  people.  Yet 
the  effects  of  going  into  war  and  the  results 
of  coming  out  of  it  are  by  no  means  all 
bad. 

If  one  gets  smashed  in  an  automobile 
taking  a  ujoy  ride,"  one's  friends  don't 
really  enjoy  it.  If  one  gets  burned  up  in  a 
theatre  the  whole  world  is  shocked,  just  as 
it  is  when  one  is  swallowed  up  in  an  earth- 
quake, or  sunk  at  sea  by  an  iceberg,  or  buried 
by  volcanic  lava.  If  one  dies  of  a  disease 
sowed  in  the  family  by  one's  ancestors  one 
feels  a  bit  cross  about  it.  So  what's  the 
odds?  I  don't  like  any  of  these  things,  war 
included,  any  better  than  you  do.  What  I 
do  like  is  plaving  the  game  as  we  find  it. 

One  thing  is  sure.  If  we  want  a  League  of 
Nations,  a  League  of  Nations  we  shall  have 
in  one  form  or  another.  There  may  be  all 
sorts  of  arguments  made  against  it,  —  bio- 
logical, traditional,  economical',  paternal, 
etc.,  —  all  unimportant  if  the  world  wants 
it,  since  the  very  arguments  urged  against 
it,  when  judged  by  past  history,  may  be  made 
to  plead  for  it  in  the  future.  It  will  probably 
not  prevent  war  any  more  surely  than  war, 

[   205   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

for  a  time,  prevents  itself.  Don't  forget 
they  are  keeping  up  the  fighting  in  the  East 
at  this  minute. 

One  of  the  masons  who  rebuilt  my  chimney 
said,  one  day  —  you  know  here  the  people 
are  talking  just  as  much  about  it  as  the 
politicians,  and  this  man  was  just  back  from 
four  years  at  the  front:  "As  for  me,  I  don't 
know.  It  is  a  new  idea,  or  at  least,  one  that 
has  never  been  tried.  The  world  does  not 
seem  to  have  got  along  any  too  well  on  the  old 
lines.  Why  not  give  the  new  ideas  a  chance  ? 
What  bothers  me  is  that  they  all  seem  to 
plan  as  if,  suddenly,  every  one  had  become 
good  and  amenable  to  discipline.  It  will 
take  a  great  army  to  keep  order.  People 
only  behave  in  the  face  of  danger." 

Is  that  true?    I  dunno. 

Nor  do  I  know  why  I  bother  to  write 
you  all  these  things;  but  it  is  in  the  air  —  so 
is  faultfinding.  I  suppose  it  is  healthy  to 
kick.  It  proves  we  Ve  got  muscles.  Even 
when  I  kick  the  hardest  I  am  conscious  of 
the  stupendous  task  before  the  Peace  Con- 
gress, and  such  a  new  one.  It  seems  almost 
beyond  human  power.  Never  before  has 
mere  man  had  to  try  to  settle  up  the  affairs 
of  the  entire  globe,  the  whole  future  of  the 
human  race,  to  re-make  the  European  and 
some  of  the  Asiatic  and  African  boundaries, 
to  right  the  wrongs  of  subject  people,  and 
put  them  on  their  independent  feet.  I  recog- 
[  206  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

nize,  as  does  every  one,  the  difficulties  of  the 
task,  but  what  we  wish  over  here  is  that  they 
had  set  themselves  down  to  judge  and  convict 
Germany  and  impose  her  sentence  first.  Had 
that  been  done,  the  world  could  have  calmly 
and  patiently  awaited  the  end  of  the  task,  — 
always  supposing  that  Germany's  sentence 
had  been  hard  enough  to  satisfy  us.  Not 
even  the  knowledge  that  we  are  ever  so  much 
more  just  and  divinely  humane  than  our  an- 
cestors, and  that  we  will  bust  the  whole 
balloon  to  demonstrate  that  we  are  not  going 
to  fall  into  any  of  the  rude  injustices  of  past 
treaties,  —  no  amount  of  flattery  is  going 
to  make  France  forget  how  the  brutal  treaty 
of  Frankfort  was  imposed  on  her  in  1871 
without  a  protest  from  the  nations  now  ex- 
pecting her  to  be  humane  to  Germany.  She 
is  the  only  one  of  the  Allies  who  can't  afford 
to  be,  —  geographically. 

Besides,  Germany's  attitude  has  got  on 
the  nerves  of  all  of  us.  Just  to  know  that 
she  not  only  is  not  repentant,  but  that  she 
claims  not  to  have  suffered  a  defeat,  is  irri- 
tating to  a  world  whose  nerves  are  shaken, 
especially  as  we  all  know  that,  having  carried 
war  into  other  people's  territory,  she  can 
recover  more  quickly  than  any  country  ex- 
cept the  States,  on  a  future  alliance  with 
whom  she  confidently  counts. 

With  things  in  this  condition  unless  the 
League  is  formed  on  a  military  basis  Ger- 

[  207  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

many  will  swallow  up  all  the  new  eastern 
buffer  states  in  a  wink  of  the  eye. 

The  League,  as  it  stands,  is  too  inter- 
national, and  internationalism  is  a  danger 
and  the  death  of  patriotism.  All  my  sym- 
pathies are  against  internationalism.  I  want 
to  see  nations  retain  their  racial  characters 
and  habits,  strictly  confined  within  their  own 
frontiers,  with  a  devotion  to  their  national 
institutions  as  strong  as  their  love  for  their 
own  flag,  first,  last  and  always.  Just  as 
ardently  as  I  believe  in  that  do  I  believe  in 
a  universal  military  service.  It  is  a  good 
healthy  thing  that  every  one  born  under  a 
flag  should  realize  what  it  represents  and 
that  to  it,  in  danger,  he  owes  his  life  even  if 
he  is  never  called  on  to  give  it.  I  believe 
that  every  man,  woman  and  child  should 
grow  up  in  that  idea.  How  else  can  one's 
nation  become  a  living  thing?  From  my 
point  of  view  that  is  a  better  protection  and 
a  surer  guarantee  against  war  than  all  the 
Leagues  of  Nations  ever  could  be.  Military 
service  does  not  militarize  a  nation.  Swit- 
zerland is  the  best  proof  of  that.  If  every- 
thing becomes  obsolete  which  means  pro- 
tection of  one's  country,  what  is  to  take  the 
place  of  it  to  sustain  national  feeling?  Mere 
pride  in  achievement?  In  riches?  In  com- 
mercial supremacy? 

The  odd  thing  is,  races  don't  love  one 
another.  Can  you  show  me  two  peoples  who 
[  208  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

ever  sincerely  —  as  races  —  loved  one  an- 
other? They  make  great  protestations  at 
times  —  interest,  policy,  romance,  excitement 
usually  accounts  for  it.  When  their  interests 
collide  —  puff  —  it  all  goes  up  either  in  swear 
words  or  cannon  smoke.  Read  your  history, 
even  if  it  is  disquieting.  It  is  healthy. 

Hands  cold.  It  begun  to  snow  a  week  ago 
and  kept  it  up  for  several  days.  As  the 
ground  was  frozen  and  mercury  fell  after 
it,  I  am  living  in  a  beautiful  white  world. 
It  is  pretty  to  look  out  over  miles  of  unsullied 
white  only  marked  in  the  foreground  by  the 
intricate  and  elaborate  etching  of  the  surface 
where  the  birds  have  hopped  about  on  the 
crust. 

Alas!  My  famous  woodpile  has  faded 
away.  It  surprises  me  every  day  to  see  so 
much  wood  make  so  little  ashes.  Some  of 
the  refugies  are  cutting  wood  for  me  in  the 
forest,  but,  owing  to  the  depth  of  snow  on 
the  roads,  it  will  be  some  time  before  it  can 
be  hauled.  I  am  beginning  to  order  fuel  for 
next  winter,  as  I  am  afraid  that,  so  far  as  I 
can  see,  next  winter  will  be  hardly  better 
than  the  last  five  have  been.  Thanks  to  the 
seasons,  summer  comes  between.  Summer 
is  my  time.  I  never  was  a  winter  girl,  even 
in  my  youth. 


C   209   ] 


XVI 

March  i,  igig 

I  VE  just  been  reading  your  letter  of  Feb- 
ruary 6th,  which  arrived  this  morning.  I 
ignore  all  your  sarcastic  remarks  to  reply  at 
once  to  the  most  important  question,  "Who 
is  Tototte?" 

Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  have  never  told 
you  about  Tototte?  Let  me  introduce  you 
to  the  handsomest  little  French  bulldog  lady 
you  ever  saw.  She  was  born  at  La  Villette, 
and  her  mother  died  in  giving  her  birth,  and 
she  had  a  cat  for  a  wet  nurse.  I  am  told 
that  cats  make  wonderful  foster-mothers. 
I  can't  prove  this,  though  I  do  know  there 
is  nothing  in  the  world  prettier  to  watch 
than  a  cat  and  her  kittens,  and  I  do  remem- 
ber, in  my  childhood,  to  have  seen  a  chicken 
brought  up  by  a  cat  who  licked  its  feathers 
all  in  the  wrong  direction. 

Well,  Mademoiselle  Tototte  has  an  ador- 
ing lady-mama  with  whom  she  lives  on 
terms  of  great  intimacy  in  the  house  I  visit 
when  I  go  up  to  Paris,  and  where  she  does 
the  honors  with  the  most  exuberant  hospi- 
tality, as  any  of  the  American  soldier  boys 
[  210  ] 


Tototte  holding  down  her  "scrap  of  paper"  and 
looking  for  another 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

who  visit  there  can  bear  witness.  I  am  not 
always  absolutely  sure  what  Mademoiselle 
Tototte  thinks  about  things,  but  her 
mother  is. 

Having  been  brought  up  by  a  cat,  from 
whom  she  learned  many  cat  tricks,  —  and  I 
am  told  by  the  dog-wise  that  a  dog  never 
forgets,  —  Tototte  is  supposed  to  have  a 
filial  love  for  them.  To  be  sure,  she  chases 
them  just  as  any  small  common  dog,  un-cat 
bred,  is  apt  to  do,  but  it  is  supposed  that  she 
does  it  from  pure  adoration.  Oddly  enough, 
it  makes  the  same  impression  on  a  cat  that 
the  common  or  garden  dog's  worrying  would 
do.  But  that  is  the  cat's  fault.  The  cat 
refuses  to  understand.  Of  course  Tototte 
knows  that  she  would  not  hurt  the  cat  —  she 
only  wants  to  love  it.  Tototte's  mother 
knows  it.  But  the  cat  does  not. 

Our  cats  and  dogs,  just  now  a  large  fam- 
ily,—  a  "we  are  seven"  family,  —  lie  down 
together  in  perfect  harmony.  Neither  Dick 
nor  Kiki  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  chas- 
ing a  cat.  They  never  saw  it  done.  If 
Khaki  is  sleeping  in  an  armchair  and  Dick 
comes  along  and  licks  his  ears,  Khaki  turns 
his  head  sideways  for  the  caress;  but  if  Dick 
persists  too  long  the  cat  ends  by  lazily 
stretching  out  a  paw  and  pushing  him  away, 
and  if  Dick  does  not  take  the  hint,  Khaki 
puts  out  a  claw  and  takes  hold  of  Dick's  long 
ear  and  shakes  it  until  Dick  retires,  but  never 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

retaliates.  In  fact,  all  the  cats  love  Dick  and 
crawl  over  him,  and  lie  down  against  him  to 
sleep,  often  between  his  paws.  When  it 
rains  Khaki  sometimes  takes  refuge  in  the 
kennel  with  him.  The  one  thing  I  have  never 
been  able  to  make  them  do  is  sleep  side  by 
side  in  the  same  chair,  although  when  they 
come  to  say  "good  morning"  they  jump  on 
the  bed  together. 

As  for  Marquis  Kiki,  though  he  is  bigger 
and  younger  than  Dick,  and  has  a  naughtier 
disposition,  he  will  attack  an  intruder  and 
bite;  he  is  perfectly  tolerant  with  the  cats 
now,  though  he  was  not  so  much  in  love  with 
them  when  he  was  a  puppy.  Today,  one  of 
my  chief  amusements  is  to  watch  Kiki  lying 
in  front  of  my  fire  slowly  waving  his  tail  in 
the  air,  while  all  three  of  the  little  kittens 
play  with  it. 

Now  the  theory  is  that  Tototte  "  loves 
Khaki,"  and  that  Dick  is  quite  "indifferent" 
to  him,  although  he  is  a  most  frolicsome 
fool  for  a  grown  dog,  and  as  ready  to  play 
with  a  ball  or  chase  a  stone  as  if  he  were  six 
months  old  instead  of  considerably  over  six 
years.  Indeed,  he  and  Khaki,  who  follows 
me  in  the  road  like  a  dog,  will  amicably 
chase  the  same  stone.  Khaki  does  it  for  the 
sake  of  the  dash.  Dick  always  picks  up  the 
stone,  even  when  Khaki  gets  there  first. 

With  this  preamble  you  can  perhaps  im- 
agine Tototte  visiting  Khaki. 

[     212     ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

The  visit  is  engineered  by  four  people  — 
the  two  "mummers"  and  the  dog  and  the 
cat.  The  instant  Tototte  catches  sight  of 
Khaki  she  makes  a  dash  of  delight.  Of 
course  it  is  Khaki's  fault  that  he  does  not 
discriminate  —  never  having  had  any  edu- 
cation in  being  run  after — and  more  than 
that,  he  seems  to  have  no  instinctive  idea  that 
the  little  dog  would  be  no  match  for  him  if 
he  chose  to  settle  matters  by  single  combat. 
So  the  cat  flies,  and  the  dog  exhibits,  at  once, 
his  natural  instinct  for  the  chase.  Khaki 
leaps  to  the  highest  point,  —  a  high  window 
seat,  or  the  top  of  the  buffet  or  the  stair  rail- 
ing if  he  is  in  the  house,  and  a  tree  or  the 
top  of  the  arbor  if  he  is  in  the  garden, — 
swells  himself  up,  and  growls  like  a  tiger  in 
the  jungle.  Tototte  gets  as  near  as  possible, 
leaps  about,  then,  finding  she  cannot  reach 
him,  sits  down  and  stares  at  him,  "  in  idola- 
trous rapture,"  her  mama  says.  To  the 
inexperienced  outsider  it  looks  exactly  like 
any  ordinary  cat  and  dog  affair.  But  being 
fChaki  and  Tototte,  of  course  it  isn't — • 
at  least  I,  who  love  both  beasties,  hope  it 
isn't. 

Now  Tototte  is  a  most  obedient  little 
creature,  so  the  first  emotions  of  her  arrival 
being  over,  we  all  settle  down  to  enjoy  our- 
selves. Khaki  is  not  very  obedient.  To  be 
absolutely  truthful,  he  is  not  obedient  at  all. 
What  cat  ever  was?  He  has  the  cat's  most 

[  213  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

marked  qualities.  In  fact,  he  is  a  real  cat, 
and  he  is  a  slave  to  curiosity,  while  Tototte  is 
possessed  with  an  "idee  fixe"  She  knows 
perfectly  well  —  she  is  very  intelligent — 
that  she  may  not  touch  that  cat.  But  she 
cannot  forget  him.  She  sits  all  day  thinking 
about  him,  and  wondering  where  he  is  — 
adoring  him,  you  understand.  She,  who 
sleeps  half  the  day  when  she  is  at  home, 
never  takes  a  daytime  nap  when  she  is  here, 
—  any  minute  that  cat  may  come.  She  who 
in  Paris  loves  to  go  to  walk,  does  not  care 
when  she  is  here  to  go  far  away  from  the 
house  —  that  cat  might  come  in  any  time. 
She  even  neglects  her  meals,  or  hurries 
through  them  —  Khaki  might  get  by  when 
her  nose  was  in  her  dish. 

And  the  cat? 

Well,  the  cat  doesn't  suffer. 

After  he  has  been  chased  up  a  tree,  with 
Tototte  sitting  beneath  staring  up  at  him 
in  gasping  adoration,  he  waits  patiently  for 
me  to  come  and  take  him  down  and  carry 
him  to  the  house.  Then,  when  the  door  is 
closed  between  them,  with  Khaki  spitting  on 
one  side,  and  Tototte  trembling  in  adora- 
tion on  the  other,  and  we  two  mamas  want 
a  little  quiet  and  profound  political  conversa- 
tion, the  little  dog  is  lifted  on  to  her  mama's 
knee  —  her  mama  can  be  very  severe  to 
her  —  and  bidden  in  a  very  deep,  stern  voice, 
supposed  to  strike  terror  to  her  little  heart, 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

to  "  behave  "  herself,  and,  as  Tototte  dares 
not  defy  her  mama,  especially  when  mama's 
strong  hand  holds  her  firmly  by  the  collar, 
for  a  while  calm  reigns. 

Then,  in  the  silence,  Khaki's  curiosity  gets 
the  best  of  him.  He  scratches  at  the  door, 
and  when  asked  what  he  wants,  he  miaows 
that  he  wants  to  come  out.  The  door  being 
opened  —  he  is  usually  put  upstairs,  as  he 
loves  to  nap  on  the  bed  —  he  tiptoes  out, 
comes  down  the  steps  halfway  and  sits  down 
to  glare  at  Tototte  held  firmly  by  the  collar 
on  her  mother's  knee.  Tototte  trembles 
with  ecstasy.  Khaki  stares,  and  then,  to 
show  his  indifference,  washes  his  face,  puts 
his  whiskers  in  order,  and  often  goes  so  far 
as  to  clean  his  toes.  He  seems  to  under- 
stand perfectly  well  that  the  dog  can't  get 
at  him.  He  finally  comes  down  stairs,  and 
stalks  the  salon  like  a  tiger  in  miniature, 
taking  the  width  of  the  room  with  his  slow, 
beautiful  feline  grace,  and  pausing  at  either 
end  to  sit  down  a  minute  and  gaze. 

There  is  always  a  theory  that  they  will 
learn,  but  they  don't  —  at  least  they  have 
not  yet,  and  they  have  had  lots  of  oppor- 
tunity. 

The  funny  thing  is  that  the  cat  seems  to 
know  that  the  dog  sleeps  very  soundly  at 
night;  she  would,  of  course,  after  the  exciting 
days  she  has.  When  Khaki  goes  down  in 
the  morning  he  invariably  stops  at  the  open 

[   215    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

door  where  he  knows  the  dog  sleeps  and 
looks  in. 

I  have  been  telling  Khaki  this  morning, 
as  he  sat  on  my  knee  making  his  toilet,  that 
he  is  to  have  a  visit  soon  from  Tototte.  If 
he  understood,  he  only  winked  at  me  and 
made  no  other  sign.  Probably  he  thinks  that 
it  is  all  in  the  day's  work. 

I  must  tell  you,  it  is  only  fair,  that  Tototte 
adores  cats  in  exactly  the  same  way  when  she 
is  at  home.  She  knows  every  house  where 
a  cat  ever  sits  on  the  window  sill.  She  knows 
every  shop  where  a  cat  lives.  When  she  is 
taken  out  to  walk  on  the  today  inevitable 
leash,  she  drags  her  conductor,  whether  it 
be  mistress  or  maid,  to  all  such  places  that 
she  may  celebrate  her  rite  of  "  adoring  a 
cat."  She  has  in  her  time  had  her  face 
slapped  more  than  once,  but  she  does  not 
seem  to  mind,  evidently  likes  it,  and  only 
retires  a  few  steps,  returning  at  once  to  her 
act  of — adoration,  quite  ready  to  turn  the 
other  cheek.  I  suppose  she  will  continue  her 
rites  until  some  day  she  gets  really  punished. 

I  suppose  reasonable  women  would  have 
let  them  have  it  out  and  be  done  with  it  in 
the  first  place.  But  I  had  fears  for  the  beau- 
tiful dog's  lovely  brown  eyes,  and  so  little 
deep  knowledge  of  cats  as  not  to  be  sure 
whether,  once  driven  out  of  the  garden, 
Khaki  would  ever  come  back. 

Amelie  says  that  is  absurd,  as  he  would 
[  216  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

only  go  to  her  house,  which  he  does  of  his 
own  volition  when  I  am  in  Paris.  So  I  im- 
agine the  dog  would  run  the  greatest  risk  in 
a  free  fight  if  the  cat  were  cornered,  which 
I  doubt  if  he  would  be. 

I  remember  seeing  a  dog  punished  by  a 
cat  when  I  was  visiting  my  grandfather  as  a 
little  girl,  and  I  never  forgot  it.  The  dog 
was  a  big  mastiff,  and  had  worried  a  kitten. 
The  dog  was  given  a  dose  of  the  whip,  but 
evidently  the  mother  cat  was  not  satisfied, 
for  she  laid  in  wait  for  him  the  next  day  as 
he  trotted  near  the  eaves  of  a  lean-to,  and 
leaped  on  his  back  and  cuffed  him  well. 
Tige,  the  dog,  made  a  circuit  of  the  garden 
in  his  fright,  with  the  claws  of  the  cat  dug 
into  his  shoulders,  before  it  occurred  to  him  to 
roll  her  off,  and  he  never  chased  a  cat  again. 

Anyway,  Tototte  is  consistent.  She  just 
loves  anything  that  moves.  Cats  move  — 
ergo,  she  adores  cats.  When  she  walks  in 
the  garden  a  flying  leaf,  the  smaller  the  bet- 
ter, a  bit  of  blowing  paper,  and  she  is  radi- 
antly happy,  and  so  busy.  I  send  you  a  pic- 
ture of  her  standing  on  a  bit  of  paper  she 
has  just  caught,  and  looking  for  another. 
Her  antics  make  walking  with  her  a  constant 
joy.  She  has  one  other  passion  —  motor- 
cars. She  simply  hates  to  ride  behind  a 
horse,  and  barks  every  minute.  But  in  a 
motor-car  she  sits  up  like  a  little  lady  and 
gives  every  evidence  of  blissful  content. 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

She  does  not  love  other  dogs  much,  and 
she  puts  up  with  no  familiarities.  You  would 
be  amused  if  you  could  see  her  try  to  drive 
both  Dick  and  Kiki  out  of  the  house.  Some- 
times she  will  play  nicely,  but  if  the  humour 
seizes  her  she  does  n't  hesitate  to  snap  at 
them.  Luckily  my  dogs  are  perfect  gentle- 
men, and  evidently  "  for  all  the  wealth  of 
Indies  would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her." 
When  she  nips  their  heels  they  look  indul- 
gently down  at  her,  and  they  actually  smile. 
Dogs  are  nice  beasties. 

In  the  meantime  Khaki  grows  bigger  and 
handsomer  every  day.  Here  is  how  he 
looks,  up  in  the  arbor,  gazing  down  at 
Tototte,  who  is  whining  just  out  of  reach  of 
the  camera.  I  hope  he'll  live  until  you  can 
come  over  to  see  him.  He  is  just  a  few 
weeks  older  than  the  war,  so  it  is  easy  to 
keep  track  of  his  birthday  —  he  will  be  five 
in  May.  He  is  very  dignified,  no  longer 
playful,  except  now  and  then  for  my  pleas- 
ure. But  he  is  sociable.  He  always  likes 
to  take  his  afternoon  nap  —  it  lasts  from 
lunch-time  to  dinner  —  in  the  same  room 
with  me,  and  he  loves  company.  Nothing 
ever  wakes  him  in  the  afternoon  but  callers. 
No  matter  who  comes,  almost  as  soon  as 
they  are  seated,  he  is  sure  to  be  standing  on 
his  hind  legs  beside  them,  his  white  pattes 
on  the  visitor's  knee,  and  unless  absolutely 
driven  away,  he  jumps  slowly  up,  curls  him- 
[  218  ] 


1.  Khaki  in  the  arbor  looking  down  at  Tototte 

2.  Khaki  in  the  garden  waiting  for  his  breakfast 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

self  round  and  purrs  and  is  happy.  It  was  a 
bit  embarrassing  at  first.  Some  people  are 
afraid  of  cats,  but  almost  every  one  says, 
"  Oh,  let  him  stay.  I  like  cats,  and  feel  flat- 
tered." I  hope  they  speak  the  truth.  I  am 
convinced  that  he  means  to  be  hospitable. 
He  knows  no  other  way.  It  is  probably  "  cat 
etiquette."  Being  a  cat,  you  know  that  if 
anyone  wanted  to  pick  him  up  he  would  not 
stay  with  them  a  moment.  He  wants  to  go 
to  them  of  his  own  volition. 

I  suppose  you  think  this  is  trivial  stuff  to 
feel  interest  in  at  this  time.  To  speak  the 
truth,  it  is  a  relief.  We  are  all  so  war-worn 
here.  The  times  are  proving  how  difficult 
it  is  going  to  be  to  settle  the  problems  of  the 
future  —  with  the  hatreds  that  are  going  to 
survive,  the  misery  and  the  pain  that  cannot 
be  forgotten  until  this  generation  has  passed 
out  of  sight  with  its  thousands  of  spoiled 
men,  and  with  all  the  destruction  that  this 
century  cannot  restore,  —  and  always  the 
Germans  on  the  same  globe  with  us.  It 
would  appall  one  if  one  did  not  remember 
that  the  world  has  lived  through  great  dis- 
asters, survived  them,  risen  above  them,  and 
all  that  each  of  us  can  do  now  is  just  our 
"bit"  in  each  day's  work  as  it  passes,  and  do 
that  "bit"  with  hope  and  patience. 

We  Ve  had  some  rather  nice  weather,  and 
I  have  been  able  to  play  out  of  doors.  The 
tulips  and  jonquils  are  coming  up.  The  prim- 

[   219  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

roses  are  in  flower,  and  Louise  has  been  rak- 
ing the  moss  out  of  the  lawn,  for  in  this 
damp  country,  with  its  green  winters,  the 
prettiest  sort  of  moss  grows  on  everything, 
and  especially  does  its  best  to  choke  the 
grass  and  usurp  its  place,  —  one  of  Nature's 
Huns,  that  moss.  But  the  few  nice  days 
when  we  could  really  work  to  destroy  it  were 
interspersed  with  floods  of  rain.  The  rivers 
are  still  over  their  banks,  and  no  field  work 
is  possible. 

Hope  you  are  enjoying  our  president. 
We  '11  have  him  back  before  you  read  this. 
Where  is  the  capital  of  the  great  United 
States  of  America  in  these  days?  I  often  ask 
myself  what  Paris  will  be  like  when  this  is 
all  over.  Poor  France,  she  has  suffered  all 
kinds  of  invasion  this  time ! 

Well,  as  I  believe  that  nothing  is  thrown 
away,  I  insist  on  believing  also  that  good  will 
come  of  it.  In  a  way  it  is  educational.  But 
try  to  imagine  it  —  hundreds  of  boys  on 
"  three  days'  Paris  leave "  are  being  toted 
about  the  city  every  day  and  being  told  things 
about  history  and  literature  and  architecture, 
and  Victor  Hugo  is  enjoying  a  renaissance 
as  the  most  popular  of  their  trips  in  town 
is  to  the  scenes  of  Jean  Valjean's  adventures 
in  "  Les  Miserables,"  while  all  over  France 
the  new-made-Americans,  who  knew  very 
little  about  anything  and  could  neither  read 
nor  write,  and  hardly  speak  a  word  of  En- 
[  220  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

glish,  are  going  to  school  while  they  wait  to 
be  taken  home,  and  being  taught  what  it 
really  means  to  be  an  American  citizen. 
There  are  compensations,  you  see,  and  some 
of  the  seed  sown  always  matures.  Geo- 
graphically, it  has  opened  the  world  rather 
wide  to  all  of  us.  We  all  know  lots  more 
about  other  countries  and  other  people  than 
we  did  five  years  ago.  Lots  of  us  know  it 
all  wrong,  but  that 's  no  matter.  It  is  rather 
like  our  written  examinations  at  school  — 
it  is  by  blundering  that  we  get  corrected, 
and  to  wish  to  know  is  the  beginning  of 
learning. 


[   221    ] 


XVII 

March  15, 

I  HAVE  had  rather  an  occupied  week  and 
I  am  thankful,  because  it  is  so  hard  to  bear 
with  the  direction  in  which  the  Peace  Con- 
gress is  moving,  after  four  months  of  nervous 
anxiety.  Germany,  had  she  won,  would  have 
imposed  her  conditions  at  once,  and  as  a 
conqueror  would  have  permitted  no  discus- 
sion. That  we  should  be  more  human  and 
better  bred  is  well  enough,  but  that  every 
move  of  the  Congress  should  be  to  soften 
conditions  for  Germany,  and  to  consider 
not  what  Germany  must  be  made  to  do,  but 
what  she  wants  to  be  made  to  do,  has  had 
a  strange  effect  on  every  one.  Little  by  little, 
people  are  forgetting  what  they  owed  to  one 
another  only  a  short  time  ago,  and  sometimes 
it  seems  almost  as  though  they  were  forget- 
ting for  what  they  fought,  since  all  the  hu- 
manitarian sentiment  seems  to  be  for  Ger- 
many at  the  expense  of  France  and  Belgium. 

I  tell  myself  every  morning  that  I  will  not 
worry  myself  over  the  great  problems,  since, 
by  the  grace  of  God,  I  am  not  responsible, 
but  it  is  hard,  so  I  am  glad  for  anything 
which  occupies  me. 
[  222  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  have  been  seeing  a  great  deal  of  Amer- 
ican boys  lately,  and,  really,  they  keep  me  on 
the  broad  grin  all  the  time  —  they  are  so 
cocksure  of  themselves,  so  competent,  and 
have  often  such  a  keen  sense  of  humour.  But 
oh,  my !  oh,  my !  They  are  the  funniest  things 
in  the  way  of  an  army  I  ever  dreamed  of. 
Real  soldiers,  if  they  have  the  smallest  sense 
of  humour  left  in  them  after  their  army  train- 
ing, must  have  what  my  grandmother  used 
to  call  "  conniption  fits  "  in  these  days.  Just 
now  the  American  Commander  of  Paris  — 
that  is  not  what  he  calls  himself,  but  never 
mind,  since  I  am  about  as  green  as  the  re- 
cruits—  is  determined  that  the  boys  in  Paris 
shall  learn  to  salute  their  officers  when  they 
pass  them  in  the  street,  and  American  Mili- 
tary policemen  are  on  the  lookout  for  boys 
who  are  careless  or  forget,  and  they  get 
nabbed  on  the  boulevards  and  elsewhere,  and 
go  —  I  suppose  —  to  the  guard-house  for  an 
hour  or  two,  or  perhaps  they  get  a  dose  of 
"  pack-drill."  But  officers  must  have  a  hard 
time  under  the  newT  regulations  to  keep  a  stiff 
and  suitably  military  expression  at  times,  es- 
pecially when  something  like  this  happens :  A 
nice  great  big  youngster  from  some  agricul- 
tural district,  who  had  probably  never  been 
ten  miles  from  home  until  he  became  un- 
expectedly a  recruit  and  had  to  travel  to  a 
camp  and  learn  to  drill,  then  had  to  come 
overseas  to  a  country  he  had  probably  never 

[   223   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

heard  of  before,  had  to  learn  some  more 
drills  and  pass-words  and  all  sorts  of,  to 
him,  "  silly  rubbish."  He  had  probably 
never  before  seen  a  soldier,  perhaps  never 
read  of  one,  surely  knew  nothing  about  being 
one,  and  could  not  take  it  a  bit  seriously,  nor 
learn  to  behave  like  a  real  soldier  any  more 
than  he  could  like  a  real  king.  So  one  day, 
when  he  passed  his  major  he  just  grinned 
good-naturedly  and  said,  "  Hello,  Major," 
just  as  he  would  have  said,  "  Hello,  Bill,"  or 
"  Hello,  Ike,"  at  home. 

The  Major  stopped  and  said  to  the  lad, 
"  Do  you  think  that  is  the  proper  way  to  ad- 
dress your  superior  officer?" 

The  soldier,  still  grinning  but  not  embar- 
rassed, scratched  his  head  and  replied  cheer- 
fully: "Wall,  I  dunno.  You  see  there's  so 
many  of  your  Captains  and  Colonels  and 
Majors  and  such-like  about  here,  that  I  get 
sort  of  careless-like." 

Was  it  any  wonder  that  when  the  Germans 
said  the  Americans  were  not  an  army  but  a 
mob  that  the  Americans  laughed  and  said, 
'You  bet  we  are."  Well,  they  licked  them, 
that  organized  and  drilled  Boche  army,  all 
the  same.  But  it  sure  has  its  comic  side. 

On  Monday  I  made  my  first  trip  out  to 
the  scene  of  the  beginning  of  the  second 
battle  of  the  Marne,  as  the  guest  of  an 
American  officer  whom  I  knew  before  he 
cut  his  first  teeth  and  who  had  just  returned 

[  224  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

from    Germany    on    his    way   back   to    the 
States. 

You  know  Chateau-Thierry  is  only  a  little 
way  from  here.  It  was  the  first  time  I  have 
been  east  of  Meaux  since  I  made  my  first 
pilgrimage  to  the  field  of  the  first  battle  of 
the  Marne  in  December,  1914,  just  three 
months  after  it  was  won. 

The  run  out  to  Chateau-Thierry  from  here 
took  less  than  an  hour  in  a  little  Ford  car 
which  has  just  come  down  from  Germany, 
where  it  was  pretty  well  used  up;  so  with  a 
new  car — providing  there  was  no  speed 
limit — it  could  be  done  in  a  little  over  half 
that  time. 

You  can  imagine  how  unimportant  the 
distance  is  when  I  tell  you  we  left  my  gate 
at  eleven,  ran  out  through  Meaux  and  by 
way  of  Vareddes  to  Lizy-sur-Ourcq,  where 
Von  Kluck  turned  to  face  the  Allied  left  wing 
in  September,  1914,  and  made  a  half  circular 
detour  to  enter  Chateau-Thierry  from  the 
north-west  by  the  way  of  Torcy,  Belleau 
Woods  and  Bouresches,  returning  by  way 
of  Vaux  and  down  the  valley  of  the  Marne 
by  way  of  Nanteuil-sur-Marne,  Villiers-sur- 
Marne  to  La  Ferte-sous-Jouarre,  which  was 
bombed  from  the  air  July  I5th  —  you  re- 
member when  my  sugar  was  burned  —  and 
Trilport  into  Meaux  across  the  Marne  home, 
and  we  were  back  at  the  gate  at  half-past 
five,  having  made  half  a  dozen  stops. 

[   225   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

It  was  not  an  ideal  day  for  the  trip.  It 
was  grey  and  windy,  and  there  was  a  fine 
drizzle  of  rain  now  and  then.  Still,  it  was  not 
at  all  a  bad  day  to  see  the  French  landscape 
—  it  was  full  of  lights  and  shades,  and  some- 
times a  half  ray  of  sun  broke  through  the 
clouds  and  seemed  to  pull  the  picture  to- 
gether. A  sunny  day  would  have  been  less 
sad,  but  I  doubt  if  it  would  have  suited  my 
mood  any  better. 

You  are  likely  to  make  this  trip  some  day, 
and  perhaps  not  very  far  in  the  future.  You 
will  not  see  it  as  I  saw  it,  and  I  did  not  see 
it  as  it  was  last  June.  But  I  cannot  imagine 
anyone  coming  to  France — any  American — 
and  not  wanting  to  know  all  about  the  country 
where  our  boys  first  distinguished  themselves. 
Being  really  the  first  front  of  the  American 
Expeditionary  Force,  it  will  be  more  closely 
knit  into  the  affections  of  the  American 
people  than  any  of  the  battle-fields  except 
Cantigny  and  the  Argonne  Forest,  between 
which  the  fight  here  was  sandwiched. 

It  is  a  really  beautiful  country  and  it  is  not 
devastated  to  ugliness.  On  passing  through 
Meaux  we  ran  directly  out  to  Vareddes, 
through  which  the  French  pushed  the  Ger- 
mans-in  1914  with  Chateau-Thierry  as  their 
objective,  and  descended  the  valley  of  the 
Ourcq  to  Vaux  sur  Coylomb,  a  picturesque 
little  hamlet  of  about  a  hundred  inhabitants, 
which  looks  as  if  it  had  never  heard  of  such 
[  226  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

a  thing  as  war,  and  then  took  the  road 
through  Gandelu,  Bouresches,  Torcy  and 
Belleau,  into  Chateau-Thierry  from  the 
north-west. 

Over  the  line  where  the  first  battle  of  the 
Marne  passed  in  the  fall  of  1914  —  four 
weeks  after  the  Germans  crossed  the  frontier 
—  time  has  effaced  almost  every  trace,  so  it 
was  not  until  we  neared  Bouresches  and 
Belleau  that  we  began  to  realize  that  here 
battles  had  been  fought.  These  three  little 
hamlets  are  so  tiny  that,  although  they  figure 
on  road  maps  for  the  guidance  of  ardent 
automobilists,  you  will  find  no  mention  made 
of  them  in  any  guide-books,  nor  even  on  any 
government  postal  and  telegraphic  lists. 
Even  by  name  they  were,  until  June  of  last 
year,  unknown  to  every  one  outside  the  im- 
mediate vicinity.  Now,  ruined  as  they  all 
are,  each  bears  at  either  end  a  board  sign, 
with  the  name  of  the  town  painted  in  black 
letters. 

With  the  ruins  of  what  was  once  a  tiny 
hamlet  on  one  hand,  across  a  shell-torn  field 
rises  the  small,  densely  wooded  height  whose 
name  is  known  today  to  every  American  — 
the  tragic  Belleau  Wood.  The  little  hamlet 
is  just  a  mass  of  fallen  or  falling  walls,  as 
deserted  as  Pompeii  and  already  looking 
centuries  old. 

The  road  approaching  it  is  still  screaming 
with  reminiscences  of  war  four  months  after 

[   227  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

the  last  gun  was  fired.  All  along  the  way 
are  heaps  of  salvaged  stuff  of  all  sorts  — 
mountains  of  empty  shell  cases  of  all  sizes, 
piles  of  wicker  baskets  containing  unused 
German  shell,  thrown  down  and  of  ten  broken 
shell  racks,  all  sorts  of  telegraphic  materials, 
cases  of  machine-gun  belts,  broken  kitchens, 
smashed  buckets,  tangles  of  wire  and  rolls 
of  new  barbed  wire  —  in  fact  all  the  debris  of 
modern  warfare  plus  any  quantity  of  aban- 
doned German  artillery  material  left  in  their 
retreat  —  everything,  in  fact,  except  guns 
and  corpses. 

Across  the  fields  still  zigzag  barbed-wire 
entanglements  in  many  places,  while  in 
others  the  old  wire  is  rolled  up  by  the  road- 
side. Here  and  there  is  still  a  trench,  while 
a  line  of  freshly  turned  soil  in  the  green  fields 
shows  where  the  trenches  have  been  filled  in. 

In  the  banks  along  the  road  are  the 
German  dugouts,  with  broken  drinking  cups, 
tin  boxes,  dented  casques,  strewn  about  the 
entrances,  which  are  often  broken  down, 
while  every  little  way  are  the  "  foxholes"  in 
the  banks  marking  the  places  where  the 
American  boys  tried  to  dig  in.  The  ground 
before  the  town  which  the  Germans  had 
shelled  so  furiously,  as  the  Americans  were 
pushing  through  to  cross  the  fields  and  clean 
out  the  wooded  hill  opposite,  has  been  swept 
and  ploughed  by  the  artillery  of  both  sides. 
The  American  Captain  whose  guest  I  was 

[    228    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

could  say,  from  a  glance  at  the  shell  holes : 
"That  is  one  of  ours."  "That  was  one  of 
theirs."  "That  is  a  75."  "  That  is  an  88." 
"  That  is  a  240."  "  This  place  was  rushed." 
"That  place  was  shelled." 

Seeing  it  now,  after  eight  months,  imagine 
what  it  must  have  been  after  the  Americans 
had  advanced  and  retreated  twice  there 
before  they  finally  passed  over  it  and  des- 
perately fought  their  way  through  that  wood 
with  its  nest  of  machine  guns. 

Nature  is  a  kindly  creature,  in  spite  of  the 
abuse  we  often  heap  on  her,  because  she 
seems  so  unfeeling,  so  unmoved.  Anyway, 
she  abhors  stagnation.  She  is  doing  her  best 
to  heal  the  scarred  landscape,  but  Belleau 
Wood,  across  the  field  from  the  ruined 
hamlets,  is  a  sinister  sight  still.  It  is  a 
ghastly  sort  of  place  to  fight  in,  —  a  thickly 
wooded  slope,  a  tangle  of  uncleared  brush 
on  the  outskirts  ideal  for  masking  machine 
guns,  and  the  clearing  of  it,  while  done  with 
less  absolute  suffering  than  in  the  awful  days 
in  the  Argonne,  called  for  big  feats  of  per- 
sonal courage  and  a  terrible  loss  of  life. 
There,  time  and  time  again,  our  boys  pushed 
by  the  carefully  concealed  machine  guns  to  be 
shot  in  the  back. 

Today  the  whole  hill  is  shell-shot.  The 
trees  hang  dead,  dried  and  broken.  The 
ground  looks  as  though  verdure  could  never 
clothe  it  again.  Of  course  it  will,  and  soon, 

[  229  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

but  it  did  not  give  me  that  impression  on 
Monday.  Everywhere  else  Nature  has  al- 
ready laid  her  soothing  hands,  but  she  has  yet 
to  touch  that  tragic  wood.  On  the  grey,  rain- 
washed  walls  of  the  little  hamlets,  green 
things  already  trail  and  wild  flowers  are  be- 
ginning to  grow.  Even  the  shell-holes  in  the 
fields  are  gay  with  dandelions  and  field  prim- 
roses, pdquerettes  and  boutons  d'or.  But 
Belleau  Wood,  as  seen  from  the  ruined  ham- 
let, is  an  open  grief  on  the  face  of  Nature. 

The  roads  are  absolutely  deserted  —  ex- 
cept for  Americans.  Across  the  broken 
fields  toward  the  dark  forest,  groups  of 
boys  in  khaki,  or  women  in  the  uniforms 
of  the  various  relief  units,  were  constantly 
passing  as  we  sat  in  the  road  between  the  ruins 
and  the  wood.  At  every  corner  stood  an 
American  camion  or  a  camionette,  and  we 
passed  no  other  sort  of  automobile  on  the 
road,  and  no  other  pedestrians,  as  we  slowly 
ran  over  the  sacred  ground  through  ruined 
Torcy  and  into  Chateau-Thierry.  My  mind 
was  obsessed  by  the  imaginary  picture  of  the 
fighting  in  such  a  place  —  the  beginning  of 
the  last  phase  of  the  war  with  its  struggle  for 
positions,  as  old-fashioned  as  war  itself. 
One  could  imagine  all  the  noise  in  the  spot 
today  so  silent,  and  the  movement  in  the  fields 
today  so  deserted.  Along  the  quiet  roadsides 
lie  buried  the  American  lads  who  fell  here 
in  the  long  battle  which  ended  the  war. 

[  230  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

All  the  little  cemeteries  are  alike  —  rec- 
tangular spaces,  enclosed  in  a  wire  fence. 
Usually  there  are  three  or  four  guns  stacked 
in  the  centre,  often  surmounted  by  a  "tin 
hat,"  as  the  boys  call  their  helmets.  There 
are  always  several  lines  of  graves,  each  with 
a  wooden  cross  at  the  head  with  a  small 
American  flag  set  in  a  round  disk  under 
isinglass,  surrounded  by  a  green  metal  frame 
representing  a  wreath,  to  which  is  attached 
a  small  card-shaped  plaque  with  the  name 
and  number.  Eventually  all  the  names  will 
be  printed  on  the  horizontal  bar  of  the  cross, 
as  they  are  in  some  cases  already. 

None  of  these  cemeteries  about  Chateau- 
Thierry  is  large.  They  are  all  on  the  banks 
on  the  side  of  the  road,  and  I  can't  tell  you 
how  I  felt  as  we  approached  the  first,  and 
stopped  the  car  beside  it,  and  crawled  out  into 
the  mud.  Just  now  the  well-ordered  graves 
are  not  sodded.  I  suppose  it  was  the  idea  of 
seeing  so  many  graves  —  we  saw  at  least  a 
dozen  of  these  little  cemeteries  —  and  re- 
membering how  young  they  were  who  slept 
there  that  impressed  me  at  first.  I  wonder 
how  I  would  feel  if  I  ever  saw  the  one  in  the 
Argonne  where  over  twenty  thousand  Amer- 
icans will  sleep  together?  Later,  I  imagine, 
when  the  graves  are  all  properly  tended,  the 
scene  would  lose  its  look  of  sadness,  like  the 
English  cemetery  at  Etampes,  where  a  gar- 
dener and  twenty  women  have  nothing  to  do 

[  231   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

but  beautify  it,  and  show  the  French,  whose 
cities  of  the  dead  are  still  formal  and  sad, 
what  the  English  churchyard  and  the  Amer- 
ican garden-like  burial  grounds  are. 

I  was  sorry  the  day  was  so  bad,  because 
the  snapshots  I  took  near  Belleau  Wood 
give  a  mere  hint  of  the  scene.  But  perhaps 
you  can  guess  at  it,  and  the  little  wrecked 
hamlet  near  by,  of  which  I  tried  to  get  a 
picture.  Always  the  light,  such  as  it  was, 
came  on  the  wrong  side.  I  should  have 
been  there  in  the  early  morning  instead  of 
at  noon. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  beautiful  this  part 
of  the  Marne  Valley  is.  Chateau-Thierry 
itself  is  a  lovely  town  on  the  right  bank  of 
the  river,  built  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  which  is 
crowned  by  the  ruins  of  a  feudal  castle,  to 
which  one  climbs  by  steep  steps  to  pass 
through  a  Gothic  arch  between  two  huge 
round  towers  into  a  lovely  public  park,  well 
wooded,  and,  from  the  platform  of  the  old 
castle,  get  a  wide  and  picturesque  view  of  the 
valley.  That  part  of  the  town  had  to  be  con- 
tinually bombarded  to  dislodge  the  Ger- 
man artillery  during  the  fifty  days  of  their 
occupation. 

The  streets  are  steep,  and  the  town  has 
a  well-situated  church  of  no  special  interest 
as  French  churches  go  —  St.  Crepin  —  which 
Americans  will  of  course  view  with  a  certain 
interest  because  it  was  on  its  steps  that  Gen- 

[  232   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

eral  Pershing  stood  to  accept  the  grateful 
ovation  of  the  town  after  its  liberation,  and 
to  receive  the  children  and  their  flowers. 

Of  course  the  town  is  in  a  state  of  chaos 
today.  It  has  no  gas,  as  the  Germans  blew 
up  the  gas  works,  and  the  streets  are  in  great 
disorder  still. 

As  we  rode  through  the  town,  after  enter- 
ing it  by  one  of  the  temporary  bridges  which 
replace  those  destroyed  in  the  fighting,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  there  was  nobody  there 
but  American  soldiers,  and  German  prisoners 
working  in  the  streets,  their  green  coats  bear- 
ing on  the  back  in  huge  white  letters  P.  W.  or 
P.  G.,  according  to  their  surrender  to  Amer- 
icans or  Frenchmen.  They  were  a  husky 
looking  lot  of  youngsters  and  evidently  well 
cared  for  and  perfectly  contented. 

I  remarked  on  the  number  of  Americans 
in  the  town — officers,  soldiers,  women  — 
and  my  host  simply  replied  over  his  shoulder : 
"  Chateau-Thierry  is  an  American  town. 
We  took  it."  Without  any  comment  that 
comes  near  to  giving  the  attitude  of  most  of 
the  boys  over  here  now. 

There  has  always  been  an  American  col- 
ony at  Chateau-Thierry,  and  judging  by  the 
signs,  it  will  be  even  larger  in  the  future  than 
in  the  past.  By  the  time  you  are  able  to  get 
over,  there  will  be  English  tea-rooms.  I 
know  of  one  that  is  being  installed  there  al- 
ready, for  Chateau-Thierry  will  very  likely 

[  233  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

be  the  point  from  which  most  of  the  Amer- 
ican excursions  over  the  field  will  start. 

I  was  surprised  to  find  the  town  little 
knocked  to  pieces  —  comparatively  speaking. 
The  bridges,  on  which  the  American  ma- 
chine-gunners fought,  are  down,  and  along 
the  river  front  there  are  signs  of  the  bom- 
bardment, and  here  and  there,  up  the  steep 
streets,  we  saw  a  space  between  buildings 
where  heaps  of  stone  and  plaster  told 
of  a  house  destroyed.  But  the  town  will 
be  easily  rebuilt,  and  the  work  is  already 
begun. 

We  came  back  down  the  north  bank  of  the 
Marne  through  Nanteuil-sur-Marne,  where 
the  valley  is  very  deep.  From  the  road  on 
the  top  of  the  hill  we  looked  into  the  valley 
and  across  the  river  to  the  little  hamlets 
nestled  in  the  green  slope  on  the  other  bank, 
—  one  of  the  most  beautiful  pictures  I  ever 
saw.  Personally  I  do  not  think  that  it  is  so 
intime  or  so  gay  as  my  end  of  the  valley. 
It  is  on  a  grander  scale.  I  could  imagine 
myself  being  impressed  up  at  Nanteuil,  and 
perhaps  lonely.  I  could  never  be  either  down 
here. 

Only  twelve  miles  east  of  Chateau-Thierry 
lies  Dormans,  where  the  Germans  crossed 
the  Marne  at  the  limit  of  their  advance  on 
Paris  last  spring,  and  where  the  American 
boys  drove  them  back.  We  had  not  time  to 
go  on  even  that  twelve  miles,  although  there 

[   234  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

is  a  good  church  tower  of  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury and  the  ruin  of  a  chateau  of  the  time  of 
the  mad  Charles  VI. 

We  ran  out  of  Chateau-Thierry  by  way  of 
the  ruined  hamlet  of  Vaux,  another  of  those 
tiny  places  which  will  never  be  restored  but 
will  grow  prettier  and  more  decorative  as 
time  dresses  the  ruins  with  beauty,  in  a  land- 
scape where  ruins  never  seem  out  of  place, 
alas !  We  skipped  through  Essonnes  without 
even  stopping  to  look  at  what  was  left  of  the 
thirteenth-century  abbey,  but  we  did  make 
a  detour  beyond  Charly  to  pass  round  the 
Chateau  de  Villiers-sur-Marne, —  the  home 
of  Francis  Wilson's  daughter,  Madame 
Huard,  and  the  scene  of  "  My  Home  on  the 
Field  of  Honor."  There,  finding  the  big 
gates  standing  wide  open,  and  only  a  few 
soldiers  in  the  neglected  park,  we  took  the 
liberty  of  making  the  wide  circular  drive  part 
of  our  route,  just  to  say  we  had  been  there, 
passing  in  front  of  the  closed  chateau,  and  on 
by  Nanteuil  and  Rouil  to  La  Ferte-sous- 
Jouarre,  a  rather  prosperous-looking,  siz- 
able town  where  they  used  to  make  mill- 
stones,—  and  do  still,  for  all  I  know.  We 
had  not  either  the  time  or  the  spirit  to  run 
out  a  mile  to  the  historical  town  of  Jouarre, 
a  seventh-century  place,  which  I  am  keeping 
for  a  special  trip,  but  rushed  on  through 
Trilport,  where  the  English  destroyed  the 
big  bridge  in  1914,  and  immediately  after- 

[   235   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

ward  a  big  German  automobile  dashed  into 
the  river  and  drowned  four  officers. 

It  was  an  easy  and  very  picturesque  little 
trip.  Except  for  the  sadness  of  the  destroyed 
villages  and  the  first  shock  of  standing  beside 
so  many  American  graves,  the  excursion 
from  here  has  none  of  the  terror-striking 
elements,  none  of  the  emotionally  over- 
whelming moments  of  the  excursions  in  the 
north,  where  the  mutilation  of  Rheims  is 
simply  heartbreaking,  and  the  desolation  of 
the  Chemin  des  Dames  rivals  Dante's 
Inferno.  Indeed,  from  the  line  on  which  the 
Americans  as  an  army  first  distinguished 
themselves,  east  and  north  one  moves  in  a 
crescendo  of  devastation,  grief  and  pain. 

Still,  an  American  woman  who  has  been 
going  back  and  forward  over  that  devastated 
country  said  to  me  the  other  day,  as  she 
stopped  at  my  gate  to  say  "howdy"  on  her 
way  into  Paris :  "  Terrible  as  it  all  is  it  gets 
less  terrible  every  day.  Time  is  doing  its 
work,  and  time  is  such  a  healer." 

Is  n't  it  lucky  that  it  is  ?  But  of  course  man 
has  got  to  get  to  work  there  soon  and  dis- 
figure again  nature's  work  in  an  effort  to  "  re- 
store "  the  devastated  regions.  I  have  seen 
discouraged  people  who  feel  today  that  it 
never  should  be  restored  simply  to  have  Ger- 
many come  across  again  as  soon  as  she  is 
rested.  It  is  a  serious  problem.  Much  of  the 
capital  invested  there  has  been  diverted  to 
[  236  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

other  and  geographically  safer  parts  of 
France,  and  to  Algeria,  and  unless  the  coming 
treaty  gives  France  promise  of  greater  secur- 
ity than  it  seems  likely  to  do  today  the  fate  of 
north-east  France  is  a  sad  one.  When  you 
consider  that  it  will  take  six  months'  hard 
work  to  clear  the  ruins  away  from  one  town 
like  St.  Quentin  alone,  and  that  France  must 
build  up  her  commerce  and  her  civil  life  in 
competition  with  undestroyed  countries  and 
that  her  working  capacity  is  diminished  by 
one  fourth,  I  agree  that  it  is  a  sorry  outlook. 
The  only  consolation  is  that  she  has  arisen 
from  calamities  in  the  past,  and  in  some  way 
I  believe  she  can  from  this.  I  only  hope  that 
the  world  will  be  patient  with  her. 

My  mind  does  wander.  Lay  it  to  the 
brain  fag  of  four  years  and  a  half  of  war, 
and  be  patient.  I  meant  to  tell  you  what 
you  will  want  to  know,  that  the  Graves'  Reg- 
istration Survey  —  if  that  is  what  it  officially 
calls  itself  —  and  the  American  Engineers 
have  done  simply  colossal  work  in  the  diffi- 
cult country  in  which  the  American  boys 
fought,  to  locate  every  grave  to  photo- 
graph it,  with  each  photograph,  careftilly 
marked,  so  that  when  the  time  comes  for  the 
families  to  make  their  pious  pilgrimages  to 
the  spot  in  France  which  has  been  made 
sacred  by  the  boys  they  gave  to  the  great 
cause  there  will  be  no  difficulty  in  locating  the 
graves  of  all  those  who  were  identified. 

[   237   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

The  attempt  to  kill  Clemenceau  created  a 
great  stir  here.  He  came  through  it  won- 
derfully for  his  age.  It  would  have  been 
a  world's  loss  had  he  disappeared  at  such  a 
critical  time. 

Lloyd  George  has  Wilson  hypnotized. 
I  often  wonder  if  Wilson  knows  it.  To  me 
it  is  one  of  the  comic  sides  of  these  days  to 
see  Lloyd  George  leading  the  Imperial 
British  lion  in  chains.  I  remember  the  at- 
titude toward  the  stocky  Welsh  lawyer  not 
so  very  long  before  the  war,  when  some 
Englishman  was  defining  the  difference  be- 
tween an  accident  and  a  disaster,  and  gave 
as  am  example:  "If  Lloyd  George  should 
fall  into  the  Thames  it  would  be  an  accident : 
if  any  one  pulled  him  out  it  would  be  a  dis- 
aster." Well,  other  days,  other  opinions, 
perhaps.  Anyway,  he  is  not  leading  Clem- 
enceau yet,  but  the  old  Tiger,  even  with  the 
French  cock  —  bloody  spurs  well  sharpened 
—  on  his  wrist  —  is  having  a  hard  fight 
against  Lloyd  George  and  the  Lion  and  Wil- 
son and  the  Eagle,  and  it  is  a  pity.  The 
battle  is  over.  The  umpires,  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  the  bloody  cockpit,  seem  to  have 
turned  their  back  on  it,  and  in  their  desire 
to  impose  their  theories  to  have  forgotten 
the  fight  —  how  it  happened,  and  where  it 
was,  and  what  it  was  about. 

Of  course  you  will  say  that  I  am  nervous. 
I  am.  So  is  every  thinking  person  in  France, 
[  238  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

and  so  we  shall  be  until  Peace  is  really  signed. 
Then,  providing  that  Germany  is  really  pun- 
ished, even  although  the  terms  of  the  Peace 
do  not  altogether  please  us,  we  shall  bind  up 
our  loins  and  make  the  best  of  it.  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  anxious  every  one  here  is  to 
have  it  done,  that  knowing  even  the  worst, 
we  can  take  up  our  lives  and  go  on.  There 
are  many  in  France  —  as  there  are  all  over 
the  world  —  who  want  to  begin  to  forget. 
There  are  many  —  judging  by  appearances 
—  who  already  have.  But  neither  class  in- 
cludes those  on  whom  the  future  depends. 
Isn't  it  lucky  that  just  as  more  things  than 
men  and  cannon  fought  in  this  war  —  other- 
wise there  was  no  reason  why  Germany 
should  not  have  won  out  —  something  be- 
sides politicians  or  man's  finite  will  is  to 
direct  the  course  of  the  future? 

Well,  spring  is  soon  coming.  With  its 
coming,  as  usual,  we  shall  all  brace  up.  At 
least  I  shall,  and  so  quite  naturally  I  expect 
every  one  else  to.  Besides,  it  won't  be  long  be- 
fore the  big  pond  will  be  open  to  all  comers 
who  have  the  price,  and  perhaps  we  two  may 
see  each  other  again.  It  is  a  cheery  thought 
to  go  to  sleep  on  —  so  good-night,  and  happy 
dreams. 


[   239   ] 


XVIII 

May  Day, 

WELL,  this  has  been  a  horrid  month. 

I  have  not  felt  like  writing.  There  is 
nothing  happening  here  except  what  you 
know  as  much  about  as  we  do,  which  is  prac- 
tically nothing.  Nearly  six  monthis  since 
the  armistice,  and  the  Peace  Conference  is 
still  sitting,  and  hatching  nothing  but  discord. 
That,  too,  in  secrecy  only  unveiled  for  a  mo- 
ment when  something  happens  like  a  prime- 
minister  rushing  home  in  anger  to  consult 
the  people  he  represents.  I  notice  that  our 
Mr.  Wilson,  author  of  the  phrase  "  Open 
covenants  of  Peace,  openly  arrived  at,"  does 
not  ask  any  of  the  people  of  the  great  United 
States  what  they  think.  Not  he.  It  really 
is  a  pity  that  he  can't  return  to  the  States, 
booted  and  spurred,  cravache  in  hand,  and, 
with  the  gesture  of  a  Louis  XIV  (whom  in 
some  ways  he  singularly  resembles)  dismiss 
Congress  with  the  equivalent  to  the  sixteenth 
century,  " L'etat,  c'est  mot!" 

Anyway,  he  has  lost  the  French.  Like 
some  of  the  decorations  they  have  bestowed 
in  a  hurry  lately,  they'd  take  back  the  ova- 
[  240  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

tion  given  him  if  they  could.  Alas!  " Les 
paroles  restent,"  and  acts  also ! 

The  weather  has  been  simply  abominable. 
I  remember  many  a  May  Day  of  my  youth, 
when  we  wore  muslin  dresses  and  only  a 
wreath  of  flowers  on  our  heads.  That  was 
in  the  early  sixties  when  children  had  their 
neck  and  arms  bared,  so  I  am  sure  that 
climates  have  changed.  Today  it  is  terribly 
cold,  a  heavy  rain  is  falling,  and  I  have  a  big 
fire  roaring  in  the  salon. 

It  is  trying  to  have  weather  like  this  of 
today  —  and  worse  —  right  through  April, 
since  the  work  in  the  fields  and  gardens  ought 
to  begin.  We  planted  peas  and  onions  the 
first  week  in  April,  and  sowed  flowers  in  pots 
to  be  re-set  as  soon  as  the  ground  was  in 
condition.  We  got  out  begonia  bulbs  and 
put  them  in  cases  to  start  under  cover,  looked 
over  dahlia  roots,  trimmed  rose  bushes  and 
rearranged  the  borders  —  and  there  every- 
thing stopped. 

Fruit-trees  all  flowered  beautifully,  -but 
with  the  menace  of  the  lune  rousse  ahead  of 
us,  and  coming  very  late  this  year,  and  with 
the  sad  fruitless  three  years  behind  us,  we 
did  not  feel  very  courageous,  and  had  reason 
not  to  be  so. 

There  was  hardly  a  sunny  day  all  through 
April,  and  we  had  many  rainy  ones  with  the 
ground  too  wet  to  work.  In  the  middle  of 
the  month  it  began  to  pour  great  buckets, 

[  241    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

and,  oh!  it  was  cold,  and  on  the  29th  the 
lune  rousse  was  ushered  in  by  a  snowstorm, 
following  a  night  of  frost.  Yesterday  it 
hailed,  and  as  all  the  blossoms  were  wide 
open  I  reckon  that  is  the  end  of  any  hope  of 
fruit  up  here. 

We  are  approaching  the  days  when  the 
terms  of  the  Peace  Treaty  must  be  given  to 
the  world.  The  German  delegates  will  soon 
be  here  to  listen  to  the  conditions  which 
should  be  dictated  with  the  order  "  take  them 
or  leave  them,  but  discuss  them  not."  In- 
stead, I  am  afraid,  the  ultimation  will  take 
another  form,  and  the  Allies  extend  to  their 
conquered  foe  a  courtesy  they  never  would 
have  received  had  the  order  of  things  been 
reversed.  But  there  is  no  use  in  worrying 
over  that.  We  will  have  to  accept  the  situa- 
tion as  it  is,  and  do  our  mending  afterwards. 
Afterwards  will  include  many  years  to  come. 
Germany  can  recover  at  once.  France  can- 
not, except  by  a  miracle.  Still,  France  is  a 
land  that  has  seen  miracles;  she  may  achieve 
another.  One  of  two  things  is  certain,  she 
will  brace  up  to  it,  or  she  won't.  It  is  to 
laugh,  isn't  it? 

Everything  is  quiet  here,  outwardly.  Of 
course,  there  is  a  suppressed  unrest  which  can 
only  be  cured  by  the  actual  signing  of  the 
peace,  and  even  then  I  am  afraid  that  we 
shall  continue  to  look  nervously  at  the  upset 
world  and  all  the  menace  of  Germany's  re- 
[  242  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

lations  in  the  east,  which  no  Peace  Congress 
like  that  of  today  can  arrange  with  any  magic 
wand  of  their  acquaintance. 

Every  intelligent  person  knows  that  what 
is  today  called  Bolshevism  has  in  some  form 
followed  every  great  war  the  world  has 
known.  Like  a  disease,  I  suppose  it  has  to 
run  its  course.  In  the  meantime,  some 
people  say  funny  things.  I  heard  a  person 
who  never  had  to  work  in  his  life,  and  who 
calls  himself  a  "  student  of  sociology,"  say 
the  other  day,  "  Never  again  will  the  people 
be  mere  pawns  in  the  hands  of  the  classes." 
I  wanted  to  ask  him  what  would  become  of 
him  if  the  masses  were  mounted  and  began 
to  ride  ?  All  I  am  sure  of  is.  that  you  and  I 
will  have  to  get  a  gait  on  if  we  don't  want 
to  be  ridden  down  when  the  masses  begin  to 
move.  You  know  I  love  to  see  people  get  on. 
As  a  rule  they  do  if  they  have  the  ability, 
and  no  road  is  closed  to  ability.  Some  of  the 
leading  men  in  the  world  have  "  gotten  on." 
But  that  people,  simply  because  they  are 
"people,"  demand  "to  get  on,"  because 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  "  getting  on,"  when 
they  "  ain't  got  no  excuse,"  is  another  thing. 
However,  these  things — Bolshevist  or  not — 
don't  scare  me.  There  is  a  logic  in  it,  and 
it  works  itself  out.  It  is  painful  to  look  at, 
of  course,  at  times  almost  heartbreaking. 
But  once  more  —  something  moves  across 
the  epochs  more  forceful  than  mere  man- 

[   243   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

power.  I  am  sure  of  that.  We  can't  see  it. 
We  ought  not,  since  it  is  up  to  us  to  do  our 
level  handsomest,  and  have  faith  in  the  final 
issue  of  the  struggle. 

Nothing  is  so  irritating  to  me  as  this  idea 
that  "people"  are  capable  of  governing 
themselves,  or  that  they  have  proved  them- 
selves worthy  to  be  taken  into  the  confidence 
of  those  who  do  govern.  If  all  the  people 
were  virtuous,  we  should  have  need  for 
neither  laws  nor  prisons.  You  and  I  have 
no  desire  to  take  what  does  not  belong  to  us, 
no  inclination  to  kill.  Consequently  we  need 
no  laws  except  to  protect  us  from  those  of 
different  tastes.  But  that  modern  Utopians 
should  deliver  us  over  to  the  rule  of  the  mass 
which  has  different  ideas  is  to  me  absurd. 
I  firmly  believe  that  people  like  to  be  gov- 
erned, but  they  must  be  governed  with  a  firm 
hand,  and  respect  the  governing  power.  The 
odd  thing  about  the  whole  great  war  is  that 
it  has  produced  for  no  country  as  yet  a  na- 
tional hero,  and,  oh!  one  i$  needed  today. 
Instead  of  that  there  is  a  tendency  to  raise 
the  so-called  "people"  on  a  pedestal,  and 
see  the  result  —  discord  everywhere. 

I  often  ask  myself,  as  I  watch  the  lack  of 
accord  about  the  Peace  Table  (?),  what 
England  and  America  would  have  done  if 
their  domains  had  been  devastated  as  have 
those  of  France  and  Belgium.  I  imagine  the 
atmosphere  at  the  conference  would  have 

[   244  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

been  a  tiny  bit  different.  It  is  easy  to  bear 
every  one's  disasters  but  our  own.  But  this 
time  we  must  all  bear  our  part.  Just  as 
against  their  will  the  Allied  Nations  went  to 
war  and  bore  it  over  four  years,  so,  whether 
or  not  they  like  the  Peace  (  ?)  that  is  going 
to  be  arranged,  they  must  accept  it  as  they 
accepted  the  unwelcome  war. 

But  let  us  change  the  subject. 

One  thing  I  must  tell  you.  I  caught  Khaki 
in  the  asparagus  bed  this  morning  nosing 
about  for  little  green  heads  just  peeping  out. 
I  had  to  punish  him  —  not  that  it  will  do 
him  much  good.  Asparagus  is  his  one  passion 
in  the  way  of  green  stuff.  You  'd  love  to  see 
him  eating  his  plate  of  it  just  as  daintily  as 
any  well-bred  person  would  do.  He  picks 
up  a  piece  in  his  claws,  puts  the  tender  end 
in  his  mouth  and  chews  it  slowly  down,  leav- 
ing as  neat  a  piece  on  his  plate  as  you  or  I 
could  do.  In  the  old  days,  when  he  was  less 
knowing,  he  used  to  be  content  with  the  ends 
I  left,  but  one  day  he  found  a  dish,  left  to 
cool  for  supper,  and  sat  down  beside  it  and 
ate  off  all  the  tender  heads.  Since  then  he 
has  turned  his  nose  up  at  my  leavings. 

In  your  letter  of  February  5th  you  tell  me 
of  strange  tales  which  are  reaching  the  States 
regarding  the  attitude  of  our  boys  in  the  oc- 
cupied German  territory,  and  remark  that 
you  suppose,  as  I  have  not  mentioned  it,  that 
the  tales  are  probably  not  true.  Well,  we 

[    245    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

hear  the  same  stories  here,  but  in  a  certain 
sense  I  am  not  much  better  placed  to  know 
the  truth  than  you  are.  To  be  sure,  I  get 
all  such  rumours  byword  of  mouth,  while  you 
get  them  from  the  American  newspaper  cor- 
respondents who  are  accompanying  the 
American  boys  on  the  Rhine. 

Do  you  remember  that  I  wrote  you  in  the 
middle  of  December,  when  I  had  just  seen 
an  American  officer  who  had  been  at  Stras- 
bourg when  the  French  troops  entered  the 
city,  that  all  the  things  he  told  me  were  not 
so  encouraging  as  his  story  of  the  enthusiasm 
of  Alsace  for  the  French  victory?  Well,  I 
referred  exactly  to  the  rumours  of  that  sort 
which  we  had,  even  before  then,  heard  from 
French  poilus  who  came  home  from  their 
furlough  not  a  fortnight  after  the  armistice. 
I  did  not  think  it  wise  to  go  into  the  matter 
then,  and  I  should  not  do  it  now,  if  Clem- 
enceau  in  his  appeal,  made  for  America,  and 
consequently  familiar  to  you  all,  had  not  long 
ago  referred  to  the  story  —  current  every- 
where—  "that  the  Americans  were  frater- 
nizing with  the  Germans,"  and  expressed  his 
opinion  that  it  "  could  not  be  true." 

That  much  has  been  said  broadcast,  so  one 
might  as  well  look  at  the  story  as  we  heard 
it  here.  It  came  first  from  a  French  poilu 
who  said  at  my  gate,  "  You  know  that  before 
the  war  we  all  felt  that  a  great  many  Amer- 
icans really  liked  the  Germans.  Well,  they 
[  246  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

really  do.  You  ought  to  see  them  together 
out  there  in  Germany!" 

It  was  easy  to  contradict  it  and  to  explain 
that  the  American  temperament  was  rather 
inclined  to  be  sporty  —  they  had  licked  the 
Germans,  but  they  probably  bore  no  malice, 
and  I  tried  to  explain  the  Anglo-Saxon  idea 
of  playing  the  game,  but  it  made  me  nervous 
all  the  same.  When  I  talked  it  over  with  an 
American  officer,  he  laughed  and  said: 
"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  when  our  boys 
marched  out  of  devastated  France  and  came 
into  the  Rhine  country,  so  pretty,  so  com- 
fortable and  so  clean,  they  were  inclined  to 
cry  '  So  this  is  Germany !  It  looks  like  home. 
And  these  are  the  people  ?  Why,  they  look 
just  like  us,'  but  it  won't  last." 

Since  then  I  have  talked  with  lots  of  people 
about  it,  and  I  find  the  situation  both  pos- 
sible and  logical.  Remember  that  our  boys 
had  a  hard  time  here.  They  were  most  un- 
comfortable. They  did  not  have  four  long 
years  of  fighting  in  which  to  become  familiar- 
ized with  German  methods.  They  came  to 
fight  in  a  strange  country,  among  people 
they  did  not  understand,  whose  language 
they  did  not  speak.  They  came  full  of 
illusions.  All  most  of  them  ever  saw  of 
France  was  in  camp  —  from  the  door  of  a 
cattle  car,  which  always  avoided  cities,  or 
in  terrible  fighting  in  a  devastated  country, 
or  among  poor,  hungry,  suffering  people. 

[   247   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

Take,  for  example,  the  lads  who  were  in  the 
forty-two  days'  fighting  in  the  Argonne, 
where  they  suffered  from  lack  of  food,  lack 
of  water,  errors  of  barrage  —  in  fact  every- 
thing which  an  army  under  the  best  of  con- 
ditions must  often  suffer  in  such  a  war,  plus 
the  very  worst  that  may  come  to  pass,  and 
don't  forget  that  they  were  new  to  it. 

Well,  these  boys  after  months  —  not  years 
—  of  that  sort  of  experience,  after  living  in 
a  devastated  country,  being  billeted  in  ruins, 
often  without  shelter  in  the  rain,  sometimes 
sleeping  in  the  mud,  too  weary  to  care, 
marched  out  of  the  nightmare  and  arrived 
in  Germany  —  a  lovely  country,  untouched 
by  the  war.  For  the  first  time  in  months 
they  were  billeted  in  unsmashed  houses.  For 
the  first  time  in  months  they  walked  on  side- 
walks in  clean  streets,  where  there  were 
shops,  in  which  those  who  had  money  in  their 
pockets  could  buy  things.  For  the  first  time 
in  months  they  slept  in  beds  and  saw  women 
and  children  walking  about  not  clad  in  rags ; 
they  saw  coal  fires,  streets  lit  by  electricity  — 
for  the  universal  testimony  is  that  the  con- 
quering armies  saw  no  signs  of  misery  in 
Germany.  Naturally  it  looked  like  home, 
and  I  don't  doubt  that  some  of  them  —  prob- 
ably German  born  —  did  cry,  "Why,  these 
are  the  people !  They  look  just  like  us." 

Besides,  the  German  people  were  under 
orders  —  propaganda    work    is    better    ar- 
[   248   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

ranged  than  ever  in  Germany  —  and  some 
of  them  were  afraid.  All  of  them  would  — 
no  matter  what  their  feelings  —  curry  favor 
—  the  German  always  cringes  when  he  is  the 
under  dog,  just  as  he  bullies  when  he  thinks 
he  is  the  stronger. 

I  have  discussed  the  situation  with  a  great 
many  officers  since  then,  and  they  all  agree 
that  the  longer  the  Americans  have  to  stay 
in  the  occupied  territory  the  better  they  will 
understand  the  real  state  of  things.  The 
ordinary  American  boy  is  too  clever  to  be 
taken  in  long  by  the  German  attitude.  He 
soon  thinks  it  over  and  reflects  that  it  is  not 
possible  for  the  Germans  to  love  the  Amer- 
icans as  ardently  as  they  profess  to  do  so 
soon  after  such  a  terrible  war,  so  bitterly 
fought  and  actually  lost  to  them  by  American 
aid.  The  most  intelligent  of  our  boys  soon 
enough  learned  to  despise  such  fawning  and 
hypocrisy,  and  that  feeling  will  spread  like 
a  contagion.  It  may  be  a  good  and  timely 
lesson  for  the  Americans,  and  help  tremen- 
dously in  their  final  judgment  of  the  enemy 
they  nave  fought.  A  tendency  to  forget  the 
fighting  is  natural  to  youth  just  after  it  is 
over,  but,  in  the  end,  the  Germans  will  prob- 
ably find  that  they  have  again  overleaped 
the  situation  in  their  tendency  to  judge  others 
by  themselves. 

The  systematic  manner  in  which  the  propa- 
ganda to  change  the  opinion  of  the  victor 

[   249   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

in  regard  to  the  real  character  of  the  Ger- 
mans has  been  organized  was  explained  to 
me  by  an  officer  who  "had  been  there."  As 
a  rule,  it  amazes  the  officers  and  then  dis- 
gusts them. 

When  American  officers  arrived  in  an 
occupied  town  and  stopped  their  cars  before 
a  hotel,  the  obsequious  proprietor  came  bow- 
ing and  smiling  to  the  door,  and,  rubbing  his 
hands,  expressed  regret  that  he  had  no  rooms 
vacant  for  them,  but  informed  them  that  he 
had  a  list  of  private  houses  where  they  could 
be  received  and  made  comfortable.  So  he 
consulted  a  list,  put  a  hall  boy  on  to  the  car 
to  accompany  them,  and  in  a  jiffy  the  officers 
found  themselves  gorgeously  installed,  with 
the  hostess  at  their  disposal,  places  at  the 
family  table,  in  every  way  treated  as  hon- 
oured guests.  There  was  nothing  that  was 
not  done  for  them,  from  washing  their  linen 
to  mending  their  socks,  and  they  were  made 
to  feel  that  it  was  a  happiness  to  the  family 
to  serve  them,  —  and  pay  refused. 

Strange  people,  who  seem  to  think  the 
men  who  have  fought  can  forget  so  easily, 
or  so  easily  believe  that  they  have  forgotten. 
These  women  who  sang  hymns  of  praise 
for  the  sinking  of  the  Lusitania  with  its 
freight  of  women  and  children,  who  cheered 
the  execution  of  Edith  Cavell,  who  spat  into 
the  drinking  cups  of  wounded  English  pris- 
oners, after  four  years  of  the  misery  their 

[   250  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

nation  brought  on  the  world,  imagine  that 
now  it  is  over  we  can  forget,  and  that  all 
there  is  to  do  is  to  kiss  and  make  up.  Even 
if  it  were  possible  to  them,  how  despicable 
it  would  make  the  race,  and  how  stupid  it 
makes  them  appear  to  suppose  that  it  is 
possible  to  us !  The  dodge  won't  work  with 
the  French,  not  much  with  the  English,  and 
even  with  our  well-meaning,  inexperienced 
lads,  it  will,  in  the  end,  defeat  itself.  They 
don't  want  to  have  fought  for  nothing. 

So  don't  worry.  As  my  grandmother  used 
to  say,  "  It  will  all  come  out  in  the  wash." 
Be  sure  that  it  will.  Besides,  already  the  real 
German  character  is  beginning  to  show  itself 
out  there  in  the  occupied  country,  and  before 
our  boys  go  home  they  bid  fair  to  hate  the 
Germans  as  much  —  well,  as  sincerely  as  I 
do  —  and  good  thing  it  is,  too. 


[   251    ] 


XIX 

May  12,  1919 

THE  fine  weather  came  just  after  I  wrote 
to  you  last,  and  with  it  came  everywhere  the 
signs  that,  in  spite  of  the  delay  in  signing  the 
peace,  in  spite  of  the  irritation  of  having 
the  Germans  so  long  at  Versailles,  the  war 
is  really  over. 

The  delivery  automobiles  from  the  Paris 
shops  and  from  Meaux  are  again  running 
over  our  hill.  The  garden  borders  —  De- 
sespoir  des  Peintres,  Corbeille  d' argent,  Eng- 
lish grass  —  are  all  in  flower.  Roses  are  in 
bud,  lilac  is  in  flower.  The  sun  shines.  The 
Germans  are  seeing  the  "  promised  land," 
in  which  they  only  arrive  as  the  conquered, 
in  all  its  loveliness. 

Business  took  me  up  to  Paris  last  week, 
and  it  was  a  surprising  sight.  Never,  in  your 
best  days,  did  you  ever  see  Paris  so  wonder- 
fully beautiful,  or  so  fascinating.  The 
crowded  streets,  the  uniforms,  the  brilliant 
shops,  the  incessant  movement,  beautiful 
dresses,  handsome  men,  lovely  women,  and 
everywhere  the  signs  of  money,  and  money ! 
It  simply  stunned  me. 

[   252  J 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  did  not  go  out  to  the  races.  I  long  ago 
outgrew  the  taste  for  that,  even  if  I  had 
kept  the  necessary  strength.  But  those 
whom  I  saw  who  did  go  assured  me  that 
never  had  they  seen  .anything  approaching 
it  in  charm  and  dash  and  brilliancy.  Never 
had  they  seen  such  wonderful  clothes,  such 
a  kaleidoscopic  vision  of  changing  colours  to 
which  the  thousands  of  gala  uniforms  of  all 
the  Allied  nations  added  a  note  not  seen 
since  the  days  of  the  Empire. 

I  was  glad  —  much  as  I  was  amazed  — 
to  think  that  some  of  our  boys  from  home 
were  seeing  it. 

A  great  many  people  were  shocked. 

Still,  Paris  is  not  France,  and  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  situation  is  understandable. 
After  five  years,  natural  character  —  long 
repressed  —  will  assert  itself.  Victorious 
Paris,  so  brave  in  its  days  of  cruel  suspense 
and  approaching  danger,  cannot  be  expected, 
now  that  the  menace  has  been  removed,  to 
persist  in  grieving.  Besides,  on  the  very 
resurrection  of  her  inborn  spirit  depends 
much  of  the  hope  of  reviving  the  prosperity 
of  France.  Even  those  who  criticize  her 
most  are,  I  notice,  enjoying  it  with  great 
enthusiasm.  No  one  in  his  heart  wants  Paris 
changed.  I  am  sure  that  I  do  not. 

I  wish  you  could  have  been  here  to  see  the 
horse-chestnut  trees  in  flower.  But  you  have 
seen  them,  and  to  see  Paris  at  that  season 

[   253   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

is  always  to  love  her.  So  close  your  eyes 
and  call  up  the  most  beautiful  May  you  ever 
saw  in  Paris,  and  multiply  the  impression  by 
the  spirit  of  relief  from  agony,  and  to  that 
the  presence  of  thousands  of  officers  in  gala 
uniforms,  and  the  strange  costumes  of  the 
women,  with  their  reminders  of  eastern 
harems,  such  as  the  west  has  never  before 
dared  to  wear,  and  you  will  approximate  the 
scene  of  today,  when  women  wear  their  skirts 
almost  to  their  knees,  and  go  bare-armed 
by  daylight  and  go  as  decollete  at  noon  as 
they  used  to  go  to  balls  —  and  that  only  in 
what  we  used  to  call  the  "  smart  set." 

It  would  not  be  wise  to  conclude  from  this 
that  the  seriousness  which  we  dreamed  was 
to  follow  the  great  trial  through  which  hu- 
manity has  passed  will  not  come.  This  is 
Paris  —  still  "gay  Paree  "  —  in  its  first 
spasm  of  relief  —  and  Paris  is  not  the  world, 
though  it  is  and  always  will  be  the  world's 
joy,  and  life  there  is  good  to  live. 

I  have  had  occasion  to  think  lately  that  we 
were  all  too  much  upset  at  the  German  armies 
marching,  laurel  crowned  and  singing,  from 
the  battle  front  home.  Horrid  as  it  looked 
to  us  at  the  time,  and  shocking  as  it  was  to 
our  pride,  I  fancy  that  it  might  be  explained 
largely  by  the  love  of  life  innate  in  us  all. 
They  had  escaped !  They  were  going  home ! 
That  would  have  been  a  sufficient  expla- 
nation, although,  in  their  arrogance,  they  put 

[  254  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

another  face  on  it.  It  was  bad  taste,  of 
course.  But  can  one  expect  good  taste  or 
dignity  from  the  race  which  has  given  us 
over  four  years'  experience  of  worse  char- 
acteristics than  a  simple  lack  of  tact? 

Before  you  read  this  little  scrawl  —  if  my 
letter  does  not  go  quicker  than  usual  —  the 
treaty  may  be  signed,  and  life  recommence. 
I  imagine  none  of  us  are  going  to  be  perfectly 
satisfied,  but  one  thing  is  sure, — the  Ger- 
mans in  the  end  will  sign.  They  must.  They 
are  going  to  make  all  the  difficulties  they  can, 
but  they  will  sign.  They  cannot  postpone 
much  longer  the  evil  hour,  when,  under 
military  escort,  they  must  ride  through  the 
streets  of  Versailles  —  the  nearest  symbolic 
approach  modern  etiquette  will  permit  to 
being  dragged  behind  the  victor's  chariot  — 
to  sign  the  clauses  of  their  defeat  in  the  Hall 
of  Mirrors,  where  forty-eight  years  ago 
they  arrogantly  dared  proclaim  on  French 
soil  King  William  of  Prussia  Emperor  of 
Germany.  It  will  be  a  humiliation  in  spite  of 
every  effort  taken  to  camouflage  the  fact, 
and  a  very  wonderful  day  for  Versailles. 
Be  sure  the  movies  ought  to  give  you  this, 
whether  they  are  allowed  to  or  not. 

In  the  meantime,  all  the  Americans  are 
going  home  as  fast  as  possible,  except  such 
of  the  army  as  must  help  to  guard  the  fron- 
tier, and  the  American  Military  Police 
necessary  to  keep  them  in  order  there  and  on 

[   255   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

leave,  and  such  of  the  Red  Cross  personnel 
as  will  remain  in  the  work  of  the  Allied 
Bureau.  The  truth  is  that  it  is  the  wish  of 
France  that  they  should  go.  It  has  been 
expressed  with  every  delicacy,  with  every 
expression  of  eternal  gratitude,  and  accom- 
panied by  a  most  generous  distribution  of 
every  sort  of  decoration,  but  in  unmistak- 
able terms.  France  has  got  to  "  clean 
house."  She  wishes  to,  and  should  be  al- 
lowed to  do  it  in  her  own  way,  and  in  ac- 
cordance with  her  own  taste. 

Most  of  the  American  soldiers  want  to 
go  back  to  the  "land  of  heart's  desire"  — 
the  "  Little  Old  United  States."  But  there 
are  plenty  of  Americans  —  men  and  women 
—  who  do  not  want  to  go.  Many  American 
youngsters  —  boys  and  girls  —  have  had  the 
time  of  their  lives,  and  it  seems  to  them  a 
pretty  tame  thing  to  go  back  to  the  States 
and  settle  down  to  a  humdrum  life  in  which 
there  will  be  no  excitement  and  in  which 
laws  of  conventionality  must  be  conformed 
to.  They  will  have  to  resign  themselves, 
unless  they  get  a  job  here,  and  peace-time 
jobs  will  be  different  from  war-time  jobs. 

Speaking  of  jobs  —  let  me  tell  you  some- 
thing amusing.  Every  one  who  has  a  scrap 
of  influence  is  pulling  wires  already  for  a 
job  at  Geneva  in  the  League  of  Nations. 
Talk  about  carpet  baggers!  It  was  not  a 
patch  on  what  the  office  seekers'  efforts  to 
[  256  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

get  to  Geneva  will  be.  Funny,  isn't  it? 
Well,  it  will  be  funnier  if  the  U.  S.  Senate 
blocks  the  way  and  the  League  of  Nations 
turns  out  a  pipe  dream  or  a  castle  in  Spain. 
Well,  you  may  know  that  before  you  read 
this.  Why,  I  know  Irishmen,  if  you  please, 
real  independent,  anti-English  Irishmen,  who 
hope  for  a  job  at  Geneva. 

Well,  we  fussed  because  it  rained  so  much 
in  March  and  April.  Now  it  is  too  dry,  and 
we  pray  for  water  and  don't  get  it.  It  has 
not  rained  out  here  since  the  last  day  of 
April,  and  the  calendar  says  it  won't  rain  for 
weeks.  I  have  planted  my  corn.  It  got  a 
good  soaking  for  a  whole  day  before  the 
planting,  but,  in  spite  of  heat,  I  am  anxious 
about  it.  Cucumbers  are  coming  up  bravely, 
strawberries  are  in  flower,  but  the  hail  in  the 
last  two  days  of  April  ruined  my  cherries.  I 
have  told  you  before  that  the  life  of  a  farmer 
is  hard.  So  you  would  be  kind  to  pray  for 
rain  for  me.  While  you  are  about  it,  please 
pray  for  the  kind  I  want.  I  want  it  to  rain 
every  night,  and  sunshine  every  day.  It  will 
save  a  lot  of  work  —  like  drawing  water, 
and  working  the  hand  pump.  I  am  busy 
picking  caterpillars  off  my  roses,  and  shak- 
ing hannetons  out  of  the  trees  and  sweeping 
them  up  by  the  bucketful.  What  with  doing 
that  and  worrying  about  the  Germans,  and 
writing  you  letters,  I  am  getting  pretty  well 
used  up.  Like  every  one  else  I  am  beginning 

[  257  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

to  realize  what  the  war  has  done  for  me,  and 
I  feel  as  though  I  ought  to  send  in  a  bill  for 
indemnity  to  Germany  —  one  creditor  to 
Germany  for  one  solid  set  of  nerves  badly 
damaged.  Of  course  it  would  only  be  an- 
other "  chiffon  de  papier" 

I  shall  probably  write  you  one  or  two 
more  letters,  and  then  give  myself  a  vacation. 
I  am  afraid  that  after  this,  when  you  want 
news  from  the  hilltop,  you  will  have  to  come 
over  and  get  it.  Besides,  I  shall  depend  on 
you  to  tell  me  what  kind  of  a  life  Johnny 
has  really  marched  back  to.  I  have  done 
my  very  best  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the 
sort  of  country  he  has  gone  marching  away 
from. 

There  are  lots  of  things  that  I  am  sure  I 
should  have  told  you,  if  we  could  have  sat 
down  for  a  good  old  chat  such  as  we  used 
to  have  in  the  last  century.  Sometimes  I  have 
forgotten,  in  the  hurry,  to  tell  you  very  in- 
teresting things,  and  I  am  sure  that  if  we 
ever  get  together  again  we  shall  jaw  away 
just  as  energetically  as  if  I  had  not  written 
to  you  so  constantly  through  these  hard 
years.  If  you  keep  these  letters,  the  mere 
reading  of  them  over  in  the  future  will  call 
up  any  number  of  interesting  facts  and  ab- 
sorbing thoughts,  as  many,  I  am  sure,  as  if 
I  had  not  written.  Even  as  I  write  this  I 
think  about  the  many  firesides  where,  at 
this  minute,  the  returned  soldier  is  telling 

[  258  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

the  family  the  tale  of  his  adventure  as  they 
hang  over  the  map  on  which  he  traces  *he 
movements  of  the  battles.  I  had  this  very 
morning  a  letter  from  the  Far  West  telling 
of  just  such  a  gathering,  where  mother  and 
grandmother,  sisters  and  cousins  and  the 
"girl  he  left  behind  him"  had  gathered  about 
one  home-arriving  doughboy  for  just  such 
a  treat. 

This  is  one  of  many  letters  that  have  come 
back  across  the  Atlantic  to  tell  me  how 
heavenly  glad  the  boys  are  to  set  foot  once 
more  on  their  native  soil. 

I  can  imagine  it. 

Don't  you  remember,  when  we  were 
younger,  how  we  used  to  go  over  to  the  dock 
at  East  Boston  to  meet  friends  —  envied 
friends  —  returning  from  a  summer  trip  to 
Europe,  and  how  our  hearts  used  to  beat 
as  the  ship  came  into  the  dock  with  the  band 
playing  and  every  one  singing: 

"  Home  again,  home  again,  from  a  foreign 

shore, 

And,  oh,  It  fills  my  heart  with  joy, 
1  To  greet  my  friends  once  more  "  ? 

"  Going  to  Europe "  has  become  such  a 
common  thing  since  the  days  of  your  youth 
and  mine  that  girls  of  this  generation  would 
feel  silly  to  "  sing  in "  their  home  coming. 
Yet  as  a  race,  we  Americans  are  the  senti- 
mentalists of  the  world,  and  during  this  war 

[   259   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

the  world  has  found  us  out,  and  is  amazed 
at  the  discovery. 

It  seems  to  me  that  we  must  have  been 
franker  about  it  and  less  self-conscious  in  the 
days  when  I  was  young.  Why,  I  can  re- 
member when  we  were  schoolgirls,  in  our 
early  teens,  that  dear  old  Stephen  Dublois, 
when  he  was  chairman  of  our  school  com- 
mittee, and  treated  us  all  as  if  we  were  his 
children  (that  was  in  the  days  of  the  old 
Everett  School  under  Master  Hyde,  and  a 
banner  school,  too),  took  us  down  the  har- 
bour to  visit  the  school  farm,  and  how  we  sang 
"Home  again"  as  the  little  tug  was  coming 
up  to  the  wharf  with  as  much  emotion  as 
though  we  had  been  to  Japan.  Think  what 
it  must  mean  to  our  boys  after  their  hard 
months  over  here,  and  don't  you  for  a  minute 
believe  that  Johnny  has  not  gone  marching 
home  with  many  a  thought  he  never  had 
before,  and  with  a  heart  that  can  say  with 
more  feeling  than  he  knew  he  possessed: 

"  Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead 

Who  never  to  himself  hath  said: 
'  This  is  my  own,  my  native  land'"  — 

and  then  prate,  if  you  dare,  of  internation- 
alism. 

Let  us  be  interested  in  other  people.     Let 

us  study  them  with  sympathy;  know  them 

understandingly,  —  if    we    can;    fight    with 

them  if  we  must;  but  let  us  otherwise  guard 

[   260   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

ourselves  free.  Racial  traits  are  deep  and 
racial  differences  marked.  They  consist  in 
more  than  language,  and  goodness  knows 
that  is  a  sufficient  barrier. 

Now  and  then  I  envy  you  who  are  going 
to  watch  at  such  close  range  the  effect  on 
our  boys  of  their  punitive  expedition,  who 
are  going  to  hear  what  they  are  going  to  tell 
about  it  when  they  get  calmed  down  and  their 
foreign  experiences  have  been  re-colored  by 
their  home  life  again.  They  came  over  Amer- 
icans, and,  so  far  as  I  have  seen  them,  they 
are  going  back  more  American  than  they 
came.  They  are  carrying  lots  that  is  good 
with  them,  and  lots  that  will  in  the  end  have 
a  fine  effect.  Those  with  eyes  to  see  have 
seen  much  beauty.  A  lad  said  to  me  the 
other  day  when  he  made  a  second  detour  to 
say  "good-bye"  and  thank  me  for  a  few 
courtesies  a  year  old:  "I  am  too  happy  for 
words -to  be  going  back,  but  I  am  afraid  that, 
just  at  first,  some  things  are  going  to  look 
pretty  crude  to  me.  I  shall  never  see  in  the 
States  a  dear  little  picturesque  place  like 
this,  —  at  least  not  in  the  West,  where  I  come 
from." 

"Perhaps  not,"  I  replied,  "but  go  down 
east  and  walk  across  the  old  covered  bridge 
across  the  Sandy  River  and  out  to  Farm- 
ington,  with  its  streets  of  elm  trees  shading 
white  houses  with  green  blinds  and  white 
picket  fences  and  tall  hollyhocks  —  you'll 

[  261  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

find  it  beautiful.  Go  down  the  north  shore 
of  Massachusetts  to  old  Salem,  —  you  can 
hardly  beat  that  here,- — then  teach  the  poor 
to  plant  their  back  yards  and  live  in  them, 
and  to  grow  a  common  flower  wherever  a 
common  flower  will  grow." 

You  see,  while  we  are  not  a  young  race, 
we  are  a  young  country,  and  we  have  every 
advantage  over  Europe  except  picturesque 
ruins.  We  have  had  no  old  regime  to  live 
down.  >We  were  created  on  virgin  soil  by 
thinkers,  and  we  have  made  a  great  success 
of  it. 

All  America  needs,  in  addition  to  her  great 
heritage,  is  mental  modesty.  She  was  cre- 
ated without  it.  She  prides  herself  in  certain 
sets  on  being  cosmopolitan  —  a  detestable 
quality.  Paris  is  cosmopolitan,  and  it  is 
because  more  people  know  Paris  than  know 
France  that  people  so  often  misjudge  the 
French  people,  and  wrongly  imagine  that 
they  understand  them.  You  see  how  cranky 
I  am  becoming?  Never  mind  that.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  months  now  we  are  going 
to  have  a  peace  declared.  Then  every  one 
must  begin  living  his  life  again  as  best  he 
can.  I  must  say  that  here  we  have  been 
doing  it  already,  in  spite  of  an  hour  or  two 
of  excited  argument  every  day.  I  have  been 
pretty  well  worn  down  by  the  war.  At  my 
age,  and  with  my  temperament,  that  was 
inevitable.  But  with  my  theories,  of  which, 

[   262  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

when  I  feel  more  like  it  and  peace  is  actually 
signed,  I  have  a  final  word  to  say,  I  cannot 
worry  now  too  much  over  what  I,  no  more 
than  you,  can  change. 

The  garden  is  beginning  to  grow.  If 
only  a  little  rain  would  come  it  would  soon 
be  pretty.  Peas  and  onions  are  coming  up. 
The  tulips  are  in  bud,  so  are  the  lilacs. 
Roses  are  beginning  to  bud  and  radishes  and 
melons  are  doing  finely  in  the  hot-beds.  The 
garden  borders  —  painters'  despair,  basket* 
of  gold,  violets  —  are  in  flower.  But  it  is  still 
too  cold  for  me  to  play  much  out-of-doors. 

A  very  touching  thing  happened  to  me  to- 
day. The  Cure  of  Couilly,  of  whom  I  have 
often  written  you,  came  up  to  say  that  at  Pen- 
tecote  the  young  people  of  the  Commune 
(who  on  Sunday  are  to  make  their  first  Com- 
munion), under  his  guidance  and  accompanied 
by  the  older  girls,  are  to  make  a  pious  pil- 
grimage across  the  Marne  to  the  battle-fields 
of  the  Chateau-Thierry  district  "  to  pray  at 
the  graves  of  the  American  heroes  who  saved 
us  nine  months  ago,"  and  "  in  honour  of  the 
American  women  to  whom  the  commune  is 
so  deeply  beholden." 

Is  n't  that  a  graceful  thing?  So  if  you  get 
this  letter  by  Pentecote  —  which  I  suppose 
you  will  not  —  you  can  think  of  our  young 
people  leaving  here  at  six  in  the  morning  to, 
later  in  the  day,  pray  beside  the  American 
graves. 

[  263  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

I  am  glad  that  the  little  French  girls  who 
have  so  much  affection  for  "  ces  braves 
Americans "  are  to  see  their  graves  in  all 
their  Decoration  Day  glory. 

I  suppose  before  this  that  you  have  read 
"The  Education  of  Henry  Adams"  ?  Isn't 
it  a  treat,  but,  oh!  isn't  it  Boston?  It  is 
many  a  day  since  I  have  read  a  book  with 
such  a  relish,  and  yet  I  wonder  if  anyone 
but  a  Boston-bred  person  can  fully  appre- 
ciate it. 

As  a  really  great  book,  it  seems  to  me  to 
come  at  a  most  opportune  moment,  not  only 
for  what  is  in  the  book  but  for  what  it  makes 
one  think;  and  it  is  so  distinguished  as 
literature,  and  so  illuminating  as  history, 
especially  the  Civil  War  part! 

In  these  days,  when  we  are  apt  to  get  so 
excited  because  people  do  not  readily  agree 
with  our  political  ideas,  it  is  good  for  the 
world  to  ,be  reminded  —  directly  or  indi- 
rectly—  that  this  condition  is  not  new.  It 
is  well  for  us  Americans  to  recall  that  in  the 
days  of  our  Revolution  we  had  mighty 
friends  in  the  English  parliament;  that 
although  in  the  Civil  War  all  Englishmen 
did  not  side  with  the  North,  it  had  strong 
friends  there,  and  to  recall  also  that  England, 
in  the  days  of  the  Boer  War,  was  divided 
for  a  time  against  herself,  and  that  in  a  most 
outspoken  way.  These  things  must  be  borne 
in  mind  today,  if  we  Americans  want  to  be 

[   264  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

just  to  the  land  from  which  as  a  Nation 
we  sprang,  and  to  which,  in  spite  of  all,  we 
owe  the  ideas  on  which  we  were  founded. 
It  is  easy  to  say  that  England  is  coming  out 
"Number  Two"  in  the  struggle;  but  we 
must  not  be  too  sure  of  that  yet.  The  future 
alone  knows  that,  just  as  the  future  alone 
knows  where  France  is  to  stand  when  the 
too-long  discussed  peace  (?)  is  finally  signed. 
Things  may  be  much  the  same  in  the  States 
after  this  is  all  over.  They  surely  never 
will  be  the  same  anywhere  else  in  the  big 
world. 

In  the  meantime  no  one  seems  yet  to  pause 
to  think  that  "Westward  moves  the  Star  of 
Empire"  —  well  for  California,  the  Gate 
City  of  the  last  great  power  to  arrive,  the 
sun  sets  over  Japan.  What  then?  Is  it  still 
to  be  "  Westward  Ho !  "  ? 


[  265   ] 


XX 

May  29,  igig 

ONCE  more  the  day  goes  by  and  the  peace 
is  not  signed.  Can  you  realize,  across  the 
ocean,  the  nervous  tension  here?  Every 
time  it  appears  to  be  in  sight  we  all  brace  up 
for  it,  and  the  depression  that  follows  is 
hard  to  bear.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  last 
six  months  has  tried  us  more  than  the  long 
years  of  fighting.  I  often  ask  myself  where 
the  men  fighting  for  the  League  of  Nations 
get  their  inspiration  to  persist.  It  is  easy 
to  say  that  a  new  idea  takes  time  to  grow; 
and  that  an  old  regime  cannot  be  wiped  out 
at  one  blow.  Against  that  there  are  some 
strange  facts  to  be  considered. 

Do  you  know  that  all  along  the  occupied 
territory  where  the  Allied  armies  are  still 
under  arms,  and  among  thousands  of  the 
soldiers  still  in  camp  in  France,  and  in  civil 
circles  all  over  the  land,  the  strong  hope  is 
that  Germany  will  refuse  to  sign,  for,  in  case 
she  does,  the  treaty  they  do  not  sign  at  Ver- 
sailles will  only  be  signed  at  Berlin,  where 
it  should  have  been  in  the  first  place.  Is  n't 
it  an  odd  comment  on  the  present  situation 
[  266  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

to  know  that  even  the  lads  from  the  nation 
of  which  Wilson  is  the  chief  executive  ask 
no  better  than  to  hear  the  order  "  Shoulder 
arms  —  March"  ? 

This  is  no  theoretic  statement  —  it  is  what 
the  boys  themselves  tell  me,  as  only  by  that 
order  can  they  secure  the  victory  they  earned 
and  out  of  which  they  were  cheated  by  the 
imposed  armistice  of  last  November,  the 
principal  effect  of  which  has  been  to  save 
Germany  from  the  full  punishment  of  her 
crime  and  to  throw  an  unbearable  burden 
on  the  two  nations  which  have  suffered  the 
most  from  that  outrage. 

In  these  days  of  upheaval,  when  any  hour 
may  contain  a  great  surprise,  the  things  I 
write  you  about  may  be  all  changed  before 
you  read  my  letter.  So  you  must  note  these 
things  as  signs  of  the  times  and  as  a  record 
of  the  spirit  here  at  the  time  I  write. 

When  I  came  out  from  Paris  the  other 
day  a  long  military  train,  made  up  entirely 
of  surrendered  German  cars,  was  standing 
on  the  next  track  to  that  on  which  my  train 
stood.  It  was  full  of  French  soldiers  — 
permissionaires  —  returning  to  Germany  to 
rejoin  the  army  of  occupation.  Every  car 
had  written  on  it,  in  chalk,  "  En  avant  pour 
Berlin,"  or  the  old  1914  blague,  <(  Train  de 
plaisir  pour  Berlin."  As  it  pulled  out  ahead 
of  my  train  —  also  a  train  for  the  frontier, 
in  which  were  crowds  of  American  soldiers  — 

[   267   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

our  boys  hung  out  of  the  windows  to  cheer 
the  French  troops  and  wish  them  a  speedy 
arrival  in  Berlin. 

"  Straws  show  which  way  the  wind  blows." 

Unluckily,  Germany  knows  all  these  things. 
She  knows  everything,  and  that,  too,  long 
before  we  do. 

Do  you  know  what  strikes  our  boys  most 
in  the  region  about  Coblenz  ?  The  number  of 
children.  A  young  American  officer,  just 
back  from  there,  said  to  me  the  other  day: 

"  I  never  saw  so  many  children  in  one 
area  in  my  life.  They  simply  swarm  with 
children,  and  not  attractive  children  either, 
as  the  French  are.  Why,  in  ten  years  from 
now,  or  say  fifteen,  Germany  will  have  a 
bigger  army  than  she  had  in  1914,  for,  of 
course,  none  of  us  believe  for  a  moment  that 
she  will  not  find  a  way  to  train  them.  If 
there  are  no  frankly  supported  barracks 
and  training  camps,  there  will  be  so-called 
gymnasiums  which  will  be  merely  camou- 
flaged barracks." 

Isn't  that  a  sad  outlook,  with  France,  the 
barrier  country,  not  only  depleted  by  the 
war  in  her  population  but  the  least  pro- 
ductive of  all  the  races? 

Face  to  face  with  the  present  situation, 
in  which  the  war  and  what  it  was  fought 
for  and  why  it  came  to  pass  are  being  for- 
gotten rapidly,  and  every  effort  is  being  made 
to  save  all  the  countries  except  those  on 
[  268  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

whose  soil  it  was  fought,  can  you  real- 
ize now  why  I  insisted  last  autumn  so  stren- 
uously on  the  matter  of  devastation,  and 
tried  so  hard  to  inspire  you  to  talk  about  it 
everywhere?  Here,  as  soon  as  we  knew 
how  the  Peace  Congress  was  to  be  made 
up,  every  one  anticipated  that  what  has 
come  to  pass  would  come  to  pass  exactly  as 
it  has. 

I  know  that  it  is  no  use  to  worry  about 
these  things.  What  is  to  be,  will  be,  and  the 
world  will  have  to  make  the  best  of  it,  as  it 
always  has  done.  But  life  would  be  stupid 
but  for  the  fact  that  we  all  care  enough  to 
protest  against  things  not  to  our  taste.  Pro- 
tests keep  the  world  going.  I  don't  know 
that  all  our  protesting  has  much  effect.  I 
imagine  the  scheme  is  bigger  than  our  finite 
intelligences  can  grasp. 

In  the  meantime  we  lookers-on  make  many 
odd  notes  on  the  signs  of  the  times.  There 
has  been  a  perfect  rush  since  Easter  to  baptize 
children.  This  is  due  to  two  reasons:  first, 
during  all  the  years  of  the  war  fathers  and 
god-fathers  were  mostly  at  the  front.  In 
the  second  place,  —  and  this  is  very  sig- 
nificant—  many  men  who  had  revolted 
against  the  church  have  softened  in  their 
ideas,  and,  even  when  they  are  not  anxious 
to  go  to  the  altar  and  hold  their  children 
at  the  font,  they  make  no  objection  to  the 
children  going.  So  it  has  been  a  common 

[  269  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

sight  to  see  families  of  four  children  all  being 
baptized  together. 

There  have  been  no  men  braver  at  the  front 
than  the  priests,  many  of  them  bearing  arms 
in  the  trenches  as  common  soldiers;  and  many 
an  anti-clerical  workman  has  returned  with 
a  new  idea  of  them.  There  is  no  telling  yet 
whether  or  not  this  means  anything,  but  as 
a 'sign  it  may  interest  you. 

Naturally,  lots  of  amusing  things  happen 
at  these  baptisms.  The  other  day  —  last 
Sunday  in  fact  —  a  family  of  three  were 
baptized  together.  One  of  them,  a  boy  of 
four,  who  was  baptized  with  his  older  sister 
and  his  baby  brother,  was  terribly  interested, 
but  not  used  to  church.  When  the  priest 
put  the  water  on  his  head  he  looked  up  and 
said  politely:  "No  need  to  do  that.  My 
mamma  washed  my  head  last  night." 

When  I  speak  of  French  children,  I  always 
feel  enthusiastic.  I  think  there  are  nowhere 
in  the  world  more  attractive  children.  Ask 
the  American  boys  when  they  get  home  what 
they  think  of  them.  I  have  never  found  two 
opinions  among  those  with  whom  I  have 
talked.  Invariably  they  tell  me  that  they 
never  saw  nicer  or  more  attractive  or  better 
behaved  children.  Never  forward,  they  are 
rarely  shy.  They  talk  delightfully,  if  you 
want  them  to,  but  they  are  never  intrusive, 
and  they  are  almost  never  quarrelsome. 
They  demand  little  and  yet  they  are  happy. 
[  270  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

If  I  were  a  rich  woman,  there  is  one  work 
to  which  I  should  devote  myself  —  the 
founding  of  model  creches  and  model  ma- 
ternity hospitals  all  over  France.  It  is  a 
work  which  would  do  more  for  the  race  than 
anything  else.  Eventually,  France  will  do 
it  for  herself.  Talk  about  new  ideas  taking 
long  to  root  and  old  regimes  dying  hard!  In 
the  days  of  the  church  supremacy  the  Sisters 
did  most  of  this  work,  and,  when  they  were 
driven  out,  the  anti-church  party  did  not  at 
once  replace  their  works  by  civil  institutions. 
I  suppose  it  will  come  sometime,  and  that 
time  will  be  after  some  of  the  seed  the  Amer- 
ican Red  Cross  and  the  American  Medical 
Corps  sowed  here  has  rooted  and  grown  as 
it  will  in  time,  —  unless  the  German  threat 
of  returning  in  ten  years  is  carried  out. 
When  I  say  that,  I  know  as  well  as  you  do 
that  time  will  not  stand  still  in  Germany  any 
more  than  it  will  here;  and  that  we  no  more 
know  today  what  the  effect  of  the  last  five 
years  is  to  be  on  the  future  race  of  Huns 
than  what  it  is  going  to  be  on  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Nothing  stands  still.  It  looks  to  me 
as  if  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States 
of  America  had  stood  still  as  long  as  it  wisely 
can  since  the  Fifteenth  Amendment,  which  is 
the  last  amendment  I  seem  to  know  anything 
about. 

The  days  are  long  and  full  of  sunshine, 
and  the  new  moon,  like  a  thin,  silver  crescent, 

[   271    ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

shines  here  on  as  beautiful  a  world  as  I  can 
conceive.  Yet,  though  I  look  out  at  it  into 
a  silent,  absolutely  peaceful  landscape,  even 
here  I  feel  the  vibrations  of  unrest,  which, 
as  I  have  told  you  before,  I  feel  that  the 
signing  of  the  peace,  however  unjust,  can 
alone  calm  —  but  when?  —  how?  —  where? 
—  that  is  still  the  trying  question. 


[   272   ] 


XXI 

June  4,  1919 

WELL,  dear,  I  have  your  letter  written 
when  you  felt  sure  that  Peace  would  be  pro- 
claimed by  the  time  1  received  it.  Yet  weeks 
have  gone  by  —  it  is  not  signed  yet.  You 
know  before  this  exactly  how  I  feel,  and 
how  ardently  I  believe  it  best  that  —  just  or 
unjust  (and  probably  unjust)  — it  should  be 
signed.  I  can  dream  of  a  better  thing  than 
the  signature  at  Versailles,  but  it  is  only  a 
dream.  Judging  by  your  letter  you  are  a 
Utopian.  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  not. 

Never  mind,  every  generation  has  its 
dream,  and  I  fancy  each  aspires  toward  its 
own  special  Utopia.  Personally  Utopia 
seems  a  bit  dull  to  me. 

I  have  known  few  thinking  people  who 
could  be  happy  forever  in  what  we  call 
"  calm,"  or  in  a  coddled  tranquillity,  with 
nothing  to  do.  It  is  the  struggle  which 
makes  it  interesting,  and  the  great  problem 
of  life  is  to  find  work  —  the  more  absorbing 
the  better  —  but  it  must  be  work  one  loves. 
The  strong  love  the  struggle,  and  the  happi- 
est people  I  have  ever  known  have  been  the 

[   273   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

hardest  working  —  men  and  women  who 
could  not  call  an  hour  their  own,  and  had  no 
relations  with  the  soft  world,  where  society 
exists  and  makes  engagements  as  its  only 
occupation.  But  a  hard  worker  wants  suc- 
cess in  some  form.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  it 
is  not  money,  but  the  struggle  which  grips. 
That  makes  it  a  mental  or  spiritual  war, 
and  in  many  forms  it  is  just  as  cruel  as  the 
battlefield.  It  is  often,  as  in  commerce,  just 
as  ugly  as  war,  and  it  has  none  of  war's 
glory. 

There  is  nothing  in  which  the  complexity 
of  the  wonderful  human  soul  is  more  visible 
than  in  its  attitude  to  war.  It  looks  on  it 
with  horror,  and  then  —  cheers  it  like  mad! 
In  a  small  way  the  theatre  is  an  epitome  of 
it.  You  go  to  a  tragedy.  You  know  it  is  a 
tragedy,  yet  you  choose  to  see  it.  It  wrings 
sobs  and  tears  from  you,  but,  if  it  holds  you 
and  rings  true,  you  go  again  and  again,  —  at 
least  most  of  you  do,  —  knowing  that  it  will 
make  you  suffer,  yet  enjoying  your  very 
suffering.  It  is  the  same  with  war — you 
hate  it,  you  shrink  from  it,  yet  it  enthralls 
you. 

Science,  development,  idealism,  cannot  do 
away  with  death,  nor  can  the  League  of  Na- 
tions with  war.  Even  Wilson  has  had  to  own 
that.  They  cannot  subdue  Vesuvius,  nor 
bridle  the  iceberg,  nor  will  they  ever,  I  be- 
lieve, check  in  man  the  love  of  combat.  It 

[   274  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

does  not  seem  to  me  that  fundamentals 
change  much.  Ways  of  doing  things  have, 
even  ways  of  thinking  about  it. 

Each  of  us,  on  becoming  a  thinking  animal 
—  and  thinking  animals  are  in  a  very  small 
minority  —  seems  to  me  to  evolve  a  personal 
idea  of  the  scheme  —  that's  not  the  right 
word,  but  you  understand.  To  me,  —  and 
I  believe  that  it  is  "not  without  a  plan"  — 
evolution  seems  like  a  never-ending  belt, 
moving  so  slowly  that  finite  instincts  cannot 
sense  its  motion,  yet  steady,  direct,  eternal, 
while  on  it  the  generations  struggle,  agitate 
themselves,  or  dream,  while  the  beginning, 
unending  scheme  moves  on  with  us  from  our 
invisible  beginning  to  our  end,  —  in  spite  of 
us,  not  because  of  us,  not  for  one  breath 
hastened  any  more  than  it  is  hindered  by  all 
the  turmoil  and  upheavals  in  which  the  gen- 
erations that  succeed  each  other  are  absorbed. 

The  veil  through  which  we  enter  and  be- 
hind which  we  disappear  has  never  been  torn. 
The  space  between  its  opening  and  closing 
which  we  call  "  Life  "  is  but  a  brief  span,  but 
how  interesting  that  span  is  every  one  who 
has  properly  lived  bears  witness  by  living, 
for  the  most  compelling  thing  of  all  is  that 
it  is  the  bravest,  who  are  "the  tenderest," 
the  loving,  who  are  "  the  strong,"  who  seri- 
ously, and  all  understandingly,  take  part  in 
the  show, — who  never  tire  of  it,  nor  cease 
to  be  interested.  So  little  does  living  weary 

[   275   1 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

them  that  it  is  in  the  minds  of  such  people 
that  intelligence  evolved  the  faith  to  believe 
that  this  life  is  not  all.  I  have  that  conviction 
so  fixed  in  my  mind  that  I  feel  sure  that,  al- 
though they  talk  so  little  about  it,  most  in- 
telligent people  have,  quite  apart  from 
religion,  the  same  instinctive  faith  and  hope. 
It  is  no  new  idea  in  our  generation.  I  have 
said  that  no  fundamental  things  change  in 
the  centuries.  But  just  as  methods  and 
fashions  and  points  of  view  change,  it  seems 
to  me  that  each  century  evolves  a  new  form 
of  faith  to  meet  its  own  requirements. 

I  have  long  known  that  you  craved  an 
exit  to  eternal  silence. 

You  long  for  rest.  You  may  be  right.  I 
don't  know.  As  for  me,  I  have  been  so  in- 
terested that  I  ask  to  go  on.  You,  who  know 
something  of  my  life,  cannot  pretend  that  it 
is  because  I  have  been  happier  or  more  lucky 
than  most  people,  —  quite  the  contrary.  Yet 
I  have  the  faith  to  believe  —  a  faith  inspired, 
I  suppose,  by  the  desire,  that  when  I  dis- 
appear into  the  an  dela,  I  shall,  and  I  trust 
without  too  much  delay,  reappear  through 
the  veil  again  bound  once  more  on  the  Great 
Adventure  —  not  exactly  like  the  supers  in 
the  theatre  who  rush  behind  the  scenes  from 
the  exit  to  reappear  in  the  same  clothes  at 
the  entrance,  to  re-cross  the  stage  and  pro- 
long the  mimic  procession.  No,  not  that.  I 
expect  to  return  and  re-begin  my  develop- 

[   276  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

ment  where  I  left  off,  bringing  with  me,  as 
baggage,  all  that  I  have  acquired,  and  even 
the  results  of  all  I  have  suffered,  even  my 
failures  and  my  mistakes. 

You  have  asked  me  —  well,  there  is  my 
faith. 

It  is  that  faith  which  has  carried  me 
through  these  last  years.  I  cannot  believe 
—  I  would  not  if  I  could  —  that  all  these 
last  years  have  been  in  vain  for  anyone.  I 
have  no  desire  for  "  eternal  rest,"  no  longing 
for  "  a  mansion  in  the  skies,"  no  crav- 
ing for  "  crown  and  reward,"  and  I  do  hope 
you  will  understand  when  I  say  that  I 
do  not  even  ask  to  re-find  in  "their  habit 
as  they  walked"  the  treasures  this  life 
has  bestowed  and  withdrawn.  Those  are 
part  of  me  as  I  am,  woven  in  the  soul  of  me, 
going  out  with  me  and  returning  with  me. 
For  good  or  for  evil  I  am  content  to  be  the 
result  of  what  I  have  lived  through,  what 
I  have  learned,  and  what  I  have  done.  I  may 
not  understand.  I  may  not  have  weighed 
values  justly.  The  great  surprise  which  we 
call  "Death"  may  be  for  me  a  knowledge 
of  the  truth  which  the  mortal  covering  we 
call  "Flesh"  may  have  prevented  me  from 
seeing.  Well,  I  am  ready  to  take  the  risk. 
If  I  cannot,  why  all  the  struggles  of  life 
would  have  been  in  vain,  and  this  living  to 
me  would  have  been  a  useless  farce. 

Nor  could  I  look  on  this  war  as  I  have  — 

[  277   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

or  any  war — if  I  did  not  feel  what  leaps  in 
advance  our  thousands  and  thousands  of 
youths  made  when  they  met  heroic  deaths 
at  an  age  when  men  do  not  look  to  die,  who 
have  given  precious  life  at  an  age  when  it 
is  dear,  and  full  of  hope,  —  many  of  them, 
of  course,  in  response  to  a  call  they  did  not 
fully  understand,  but  most  of  them  in  a  full 
realization  of  exactly  what  they  were  doing. 
To  feel  that,  in  dying  for  others,  they  have 
won  for  themselves,  takes  the  sting  out  of 
death,  and  in  believing,  as  I  most  ardently 
do,  that  though  they  have  disappeared  for 
a  space,  they  are  to  return,  wearing  in  their 
souls  and  characters  the  results  of  their 
noble  sacrifice  seems  to  me  a  promise  for  the 
future,  in  which  even  the  present  can  rejoice. 
Of  course  your  logical  mind  is  going  to 
say,  "  Prove  it."  I  can't.  I  don't  even  try. 
If  I  did,  I  should  never  use  the  word  "  Faith." 
I  know  intimately  any  number  of  people  who 
will  prove  some  of  it.  I  don't  even  ask  to 
have  it  proved.  I  have  never  done  any 
laboratory  work  such  as  so  long  occupied 
Minot  Savage,  or  such  as  occupies  men  like 
Conan  Doyle  and  Oliver  Lodge  today.  I 
have  never  had  any  occult  experiences  such 
as  dear  Elsa  Barker  has  had.  I  am  even 
willing  to  own  that  we  each  create  our  own 
theory  of  the  Great  Adventure  out  of  our 
own  needs.  But  I  do  know  that  moving  over 
the  surface  of  modern  life  and  through  its 
[  278  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

depths  some  idea  like  mine  has  been  moving 
all  through  this  generation,  and  that  if  there 
is  to  come  any  vital  improvement  in  the 
future  it  can  only  come  through  the  indi- 
vidual recognizing  his  obligations  to  his  own 
soul,  and  the  fact  that  we  are  builders  of 
our  own  characters,  the  carvers  of  our  own 
destinies,  and  that  on  ourselves  and  on  no 
one  else  rest  the  penalties  of  our  lives.  The 
person  who  has  come  to  realize  that,  and 
to  feel  that  the  judgment  "  Know  thyself  " 
may  be  a  bitterer  punishment  than  ever  the 
ancient  threat  of  hell-fire  was,  has  not  been 
quite  a  mollusc. 

Though  I  cannot  give  you  the  proofs  your 
logical  mind  will  demand,  I  must  confess 
that  only  in  this  way  can  I  explain  many 
things  in  life,  like  genius,  for  example.  How 
otherwise  can  we  account  for  children  like 
Mozart,  or,  to  come  nearer  to  our  own 
experiences,  Josef  Hoffman,  except  by  be- 
lieving that  the  children  who  did  at  nine 
years  old  what  intelligent  men  spent  all 
their  lives  to  acquire,  brought  with  them, 
as  baggage,  the  results  of  achievements 
in  some  earlier  incarnation?  How  else 
can  we  account  for  the  children  of  a 
family  who  though  physically  resembling  one 
another  bear  no  spiritual,  mental  or  moral 
relationship  to  one  another?  How  do  you 
explain  the  fact  that  great  geniuses  rarely 
father  great  geniuses,  and  that,  on  the  con- 

[  279   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

trary,  geniuses  as  an  almost  universal  rule 
have  ordinary  children,  and  from  unexpected 
parents  great  men  are  so  often  born?  How 
do  you  explain  the  sudden  impulses  which 
people  have  toward  each  other  —  I  am  not 
talking  of  the  physical  attraction  we  call 
"  love,"  which,  in  nine  times  out  of  ten,  is 
as  biological  as  the  Huns,  —  but  of  the  rare 
friendships  that  are  so  soul-compelling  that 
they  are  hard  to  explain  except  by  the 
thought  that  they  had  their  beginnings  else- 
where, and  only  blossomed  here.  I  cannot 
myself  see  how  by  any  other  belief  we  can 
explain  that  while  physical  inheritance  is  so 
common,  spiritual,  moral  and  mental  inheri- 
tance seems  so  rare  in  families. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  —  of  course  it  has 
—  that  one  can  prove  almost  anything?  It 
all  depends  on  the  point  from  which  one 
starts,  and,  in  subjects  like  this,  the  starting 
point  is  pure  conjecture,  since  no  one  really 
knows  the  truth  about  the  beginnings  of 
things. 

Naturally,  you  and  your  scientific  friends 
will  shoot  this  argument  full  of  holes,  only 
it  happens  that  Science,  even,  cannot  riddle 
Faith  with  its  arguments. 

It,  at  times  —  when  I  am  in  a  mood  of 
contrariness  —  seems  to  me  a  joke  to  remem- 
ber how  man  has  theorized  from  as  long 
ago  as  we  know  anything  about  him,  and  I 
am  persuaded  he  always  will,  and  I  am  glad 
[  280  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

of  it.  It  kills  so  many  hours  that  would 
otherwise  be  idle.  Each  cycle  in  philosophy 
—  which  is  after  all  only  mental  gymnas- 
tics, as  fascinating  for  those  interested  as  a 
trapeze  performance,  and  just  as  wonderful, 
and  now  and  then  just  as  pretty,  and  often 
just  as  dangerous  —  has  calmly  overturned 
the  conclusions  of  the  previous  one — I  might 
except  Plato  —  without  in  the  very  least 
disconcerting  the  looker-on.  Then  some  one 
writes  the  history  of  it  all,  and  we  who  are 
interested  read  it  with  perfect  sang-froid, 
not  a  bit  realizing  that  the  Future  will  do 
with  us  and  our  creeds  exactly  what  we  do 
with  the  Past  —  look  on  with  interested 
curiosity.  Would  n't  you  like  to  know  what 
the  future  will  say  of  us  ?  Well,  you  probably 
will  —  but  without  really  knowing  it. 

Even  today  I  am  a  bit  overwhelmed  with 
all  the  marvels  of  it.  Only  think  I  can  re- 
member the  first  street  cars  on  rails  (horse- 
drawn),  the  first  electric  cars,  the  first  auto- 
mobiles, the  first  telephone,  the  first  bicycle, 
the  first  typewriter,  the  first  linotype.  Rail- 
roads were  primitive  in  my  youth,  and 
the  telegraph  was  in  its  infancy  when 
I  arrived  on  the  scene  this  time.  In  fact 
no  epoch  has  ever  made  the  mechani- 
cal strides  that  this  one  has  done,  just  as 
none  has  ever  produced  such  a  war  as  ours  — 
a  war  with  all  the  modern  improvements. 
We  surely  have  provided  topics  of  all  sorts 

[  281   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

for  the  theorists  of  the  future,  and  for  the 
writers. 

I  imagine  that  I  have  already,  many  times, 
remarked  how  wonderful  it  seems  to  me  that 
Life  and  Living  have  been  so  arranged  as  if 
to  keep  Man  interested  and  occupied  —  with 
the  Earth  full  of  wonders  to  be  dug  for, 
and  which  are  dug  for  by  so  many  grown 
and  clever  men  with  just  as  much  interest 
and  absorption  as  that  with  which  children 
dig  for  worms  or  play  with  toys.  Cities 
are  lost  and  forgotten  that  later  generations 
may  be  interested  in  digging  them  up  and 
talking  about  them.  Races  of  men  and 
races  of  animals  become  extinct  that  very 
cultivated  scholars  of  future  generations  may 
devote  their  serious  maturity  to  bringing 
them  back  to  our  interest,  and  the  Earth 
and  the  Air  are  full  of  strange  animals  and 
strange  bugs  —  visible  and  invisible  —  that 
clever  men,  armed  with  microscopes  and 
other  instruments  and  much  erudition,  may 
write  fascinating  books  about  them,  and  re- 
cite fascinating  lectures  to  prove  them  more 
wonderful,  as  well  as  more  interesting,  than 
Man  himself. 

Just  think  of  all  the  material  for  that  sort 
of  research  which  is  coming  out  of  this  war. 
Only  think  of  the  thousands  of  heavily  laden 
ships  of  all  sorts  that  have  been  sent  to  the 
bottom  by  the  diabolical  submarines,  which 
the  Huns  did  not  invent,  but  which  only 
[  282  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

such  a  race  could  have  put  to  the  use 
they  did.  Under  the  waves  lie  not  only  the 
bones  of  the  men,  women,  and  children  sacri- 
ficed in  this  mighty  struggle  for  supremacy, 
but  untold  treasures  of  all  sorts.  "The 
Reef  of  Stars  "  sort  of  thing  is  not  a  patch 
on  this. 

Not  only  have  thousands  and  thousands 
of  tons  of  food  gone  down  to  feed  the  fishes 
and  the  mermaids  but  there,  among  the  flora 
and  in  the  "  caves  of  the  deep,"  are  gold  and 
diamonds,  clothing  and  bedding  and  beds, 
porcelains  and  glass,  carpets  and  furniture, 
and  all  the  lost  trunks  of  ships  like  the 
Lusitania.  What  a  chance  for  a  future 
Jules  Verne,  and  what  a  work  of  salvage 
England  has  already  begun.  Fantastic  im- 
aginations have  a  field  before  them  never 
before  presented  in  the  same  way.  Imagine 
—  just  try  to  imagine  in  what  wealth  the 
mermaids  of  Neptune's  realms  must  be 
living  in  these  days.  To  be  sure,  Parisians 
might  consider  them  a  bit  demode e. 

You  must  be  patient  with  all  this,  if  it  is 
not  what  you  are  waiting  to  hear  about.  I 
don't  know  what  the  tendency  of  the  future 
is  going  to  be.  How  can  I?  I  don't  know 
any  better  than  you  do  whether  or  not  this 
philosophical  attempt  at  a  lasting  peace  is 
going  to  lead  where  you  hope  it  may.  How 
can  I?  I  sometimes  think  that  the  intention 
of  the  great  scheme,  —  "A  mighty  maze" 

[  283  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

indeed  —  is  that  each  generation  should  have 
its  great  chance.  We,  who  have  lived  these 
days,  surely  know  now  that  Life  can  give  no 
greater  opportunity  to  each  generation  than 
one  which  lets  it  give  evidence  to  its  belief 
that  there  are  things  it  values  much  more 
than  it  values  life,  and,  in  its  turn,  to 
prove  that  every  day  humanity  is  ca- 
pable of  making  the'  sacrifice,  facing  the 
danger,  and  without  repining  demonstrate 
that  neither  heroism  nor  chivalry  is  dead. 
The  point  which  we  had  reached  and  in  which 
so  many  saw  only  materialism,  was  but  a  tem- 
porary turning  place  in  the  march  toward  the 
future,  a  crossroads  where  humanity  stopped 
to  think,  and  thinking,  acted,  because,  gen- 
erally speaking,  what  has  happened  to  our 
generation  was  no  haphazard  circumstance 
- — if  anything  is  ever  haphazard. 

One  thing  I  do  know.  Our  generation 
has  made  good.  I  have  often  said  when 
I  was  younger  that  I  wished  I  had  lived 
in  this  or  that  epoch,  which  seemed  more 
interesting  than  ours.  I  don't  say  so  any 
more.  As  it  recedes,  I  begin  to  get  it  in 
perspective  —  and  really  it  has  been  wonder- 
ful, not  because  of  its  nine  big  wars,  but  in 
spite  of  them. 

I  hope  that  I  have  seen  my  last.  I  mean 
to  settle  down  in  the  garden  now  and  live 
with  my  memories,  not  feeling  yet  too  old  to 
write  up  over  my  desk: 

[   284   ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

"  Happy  the  man,  and  happy  he  alone, 
He  who  can  call  today  his  own; 
He  who,  secure  within,  can  say: 
'  Tomorrow  do  thy  worst,  for  I  have  lived 

today; 

Be  fair  or  foul,  or  rain  or  shine, 
The  joys  I  have  posssessed,  in  spite  of  fate, 

are  mine. 

Not  Heaven  itself  on  the  past  has  power, 
But  what  has  been,  has  been,  and  I  have 

had  my  hour.1 ' 

Does  n't  that  take  you  back  to  your  school 
days?  It  does  me. 

I  can't  tell  you  just  how  it  all  seems  to  me 
here  now.  You  remember  that  I  was  hardly 
settled  here  when  the  war  came,  and  my 
well-laid  plans  for  a  quiet  life  in  the  quiet 
country,  forgotten  and  forgetting,  were 
ruined.  I  look  out  each  morning  on  my 
beautiful  panorama  —  but  it  has  been  a 
battlefield.  I  look  at  Amelie  and  try  to  re- 
member what  she  was  like  in  the  days  before 
dangers  drew  us  close  together  for  ever  and 
aye.  It  is  so  quiet  here,  so  peaceful,  and  yet 
it  is  hard  to  forget  the  nights  of  bombard- 
ments, the  noisy  passing  of  the  military 
trains,  and  all  the  movement  to  which  we 
became  so  accustomed.  I  don't  know  some- 
times which  seems  the  more  remarkable  — 
that  we  lived  through  four  years  of  it,  or 
that  it  is  over.  It  is  marvellous  what  the 

[  285  ] 


WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME 

immortal  soul  in  its  human  frame  can  stand, 
and  seemingly  be  the  better  for.  So  God 
bless  every  one  who  has  faced  it  and  come 
through  it,  and  glory  be  to  these  who  won 
through  at  the  great  cost  of  the  sublime 
sacrifice. 


[  286   ] 


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